A Concerted Effort to Disagree
by todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: "And we always thought he didn't have the capacity for emotion. This changes everything. Maybe all Slytherins can be lovely and nice." The two new Heads are at each other's throats in no time. No lemons, but adult situations and cussing.
1. thunder between storms

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: In keeping with the general story of Harry Potter, I've attempted to follow the British way of speaking as closely as I can replicate, being an ignorant American myself. This means, both in narration and in dialogue, I'm striving to sound like I'm from England, which may well be impossible, but I've had a fair shot at it. If anything strikes you as interesting, spectacular, or horrible, I'd love to hear about it. Happy reading.]

ONE

_thunder between storms_

He was not pleased at all, to say the very least.

The letter was scanned with an irritated eye, cold blue-grey wandering the letters with menacing thoughts following right along. _They must be insane, _he told himself, _bloody out of their minds. This is lunacy. They can't expect us to go along with this._

But it was there, written on the yellowed parchment for eyes as clever as his own to clearly read:

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been appointed as Head Boy. Serving as your opposite will be Gryffindor Hermione Granger. The Headmaster, Deputy Headmistress, and Professors and Staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry congratulate you on your achievement and expect nothing but your full effort to be devoted to your duties as Head Boy, which will be explained to you upon your arrival at Hogwarts in company of the Head Girl._

_Wishing you the best remainder of your holidays,_

_Professor M. McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

"This is rubbish," he muttered angrily aloud, tossing the letter back onto his night stand and sinking into his bed. "This is absolute rubbish."

His frustration was plainly understood. His father and aunt were, after all, currently locked away in Azkaban due to that Mudblood's friends and their interference. He couldn't claim to have ever felt much of anything for Bellatrix—she reminded him too much of a raving lunatic, and he couldn't stand people who couldn't control themselves—but he and his father saw eye-to-eye on most everything, and it was infuriating, having to think of being forced to cooperate with Granger. At least, he would have to while everyone was watching.

The last six months had been nothing short of absolute torture. The Dark Lord had, once again, vanished, by claims of the Daily Prophet and the Ministry itself, a massive effort on the part of Aurors and the elusive Order of the Phoenix. It had either destroyed him or pushed him into hiding. No one knew, exactly, if this had been anything to be cheerful about at the time. The followers that had escaped imprisonment had been causing enough of a terror up and down the country in the aftermath, and though Draco Malfoy and his mother were keeping well out of the noise, it was enough to make anyone wonder. Would the Dark Lord return again?

Though it was his own personal, quiet opinion, which he kept very much to himself, and would pay for dearly if he voiced it, he wouldn't fancy the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Only slightly less than a year ago, the Dark Lord had demanded something of him that he had considered quite impossible, and he was glad of the excuse not to carry out the task—and not to fail at it.

_He would have killed me. And if he wouldn't've, Dumbledore could have._

He knew better than to hope that Dumbledore didn't know of the plot. With Snape always hanging off his arm, acting the double agent, how could he not? But it appeared that the ancient Headmaster was unwilling to approach him. There hadn't been much harm done, on the outside, anyway. No one but Draco himself understood how panicked the hours had been in that damned Room of Hidden Things for those long months; no one but he understood the sheer volume of terror that seized him every time his repairs failed to make the cabinet run properly once again. Only Draco Malfoy knew of that horror.

And then, the Dark Lord had gone, and his orders were rescinded; without the threat of murder over his head—and murder of his entire family, at that—there was no reason at all to continue. He had subsided with relief, and his mother had been nearly tearful over their stroke of good luck. Good luck, he scoffed to himself—good luck indeed, at least, until Voldemort made a concerted effort to re-emerge from the shadows.

His Quidditch Captain badge lay beside the Head Boy badge atop the pieces of parchment, and he snorted to himself in disbelief, turning away from the trifling troubles. In comparison to the Dark Lord, how much of a problem could a jumped-up Mudblood and her friends pose to him?

…

"Oh, Merlin's beard. It's happened."

"What's happened?"

"Just the most bloody terrifying year of our lives, that's all."

"What're you on about, Ron?"

It was too hot; Harry Potter wasn't about to get worked up for anything. Lazing about in the garden of the Burrow, the polishing kit for his Firebolt spread out beside him, he plucked a single stray twig and glanced up at the shadow being cast over him. Before his red-haired best friend could properly explain, however, there came a shriek of delight from inside the house, and the sound of twin voices exchanging jokes before Ginny's words of congratulations cut in. The voices of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sounded in tandem with Mr. and Mrs. Granger's. The two had stayed for the night after dropping Hermione off the day before, and were in fact about to be on their way.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah. Our Hogwarts letters have arrived. Guess who just found out she's Head Girl?"

After a brief struggle, Harry picked himself up off the ground and turned towards the Burrow. "We'd better go and congratulate her, I suppose."

"Congratulate her? Bloody hell, Harry, do you realize how much harder it's going to be to break any rules with her in control?"

"Calm down. I've had enough bloody rule-breaking for a lifetime, anyway."

This last statement couldn't have been truer. The fight with Voldemort had not been expected—it had been too much, too soon, and now Harry Potter had subsided into ceaseless worry over the Horcruxes that were not yet destroyed and which would still take a great amount of strength to eliminate. Even with the main piece of Voldemort out of the way, it would be difficult, especially with the Ministry back on its toes once more. They were bound to be more interfering than ever. And in light of all this, his worry for rule-breaking under Hermione's nose was minimal.

"Oh, no. I can't face this," Ron muttered, as Hermione rushed out into the garden.

"Harry! Ron! I'm Head Girl!"

Not unexpectedly, she threw herself into Ron's arms for a hug, and he relented on his stream of dire predictions to return the sentiment. "Congratulations, Hermione," he managed, though he rolled his eyes at Harry over Hermione's head.

"Yeah, Hermione, well done, though not entirely unexpected," Harry pointed out, as he hugged her, too. "Let's see the letter then, go on."

Beaming, the small brunette shook open the sheaf of parchment and read aloud, "_Dear Miss Granger, We are pleased to inform you that you have been appointed as Head Girl. Serving as your opposite will be Slytherin_...oh, no..."

Hermione's face had drained of colour. Her typically sweet, studious brown eyes had turned mutinous, and sparkled with a hard, infuriated, terrified light. "I reckon she hadn't gotten that far into the letter yet," Harry said in an undertone to Ron.

"With HIM? I have to share this with HIM?" she shrieked, throwing the letter into the air. Ron deftly caught it before it could be trampled by the gnomes now running around, lured into the open by the noise of celebration. "This has to be a mistake!"

"Hermione, calm down," Harry soothed, as he wrenched the letter from Ron and continued reading. "_Serving as your opposite will be Slytherin Draco Malfoy. The Headmaster, Deputy Headmistress, and Professors and Staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry congratulate you on your achievement and expect nothing but your full effort to be devoted to your duties as Head Girl, which will be explained to you upon your arrival at Hogwarts in company of the Head Boy. Wishing you the best remainder of your holidays, Professor M. McGonagall, _etcetera, etcetera." Harry frowned and folded up the parchment again.

"Blimey, that's rotten luck," Ron commented, pushing his hands into his pockets and gazing at Hermione with something akin to sympathy.

"Rotten? ROTTEN?" She swelled like a bullfrog. "I can't believe this, I spend six years being top in everything only to have it ruined by a git like him getting it too. Oh, couldn't it have been Ernie, or one of you, or even that silent boy from Ravenclaw, it had to be Malfoy!"

"Yeah, especially after all our suspicions," Harry agreed, his frown still in place. "Should we have a word with Dumbledore? This seems dangerous. He was up to something until Voldemort vanished again."

"Don't say the name!" Ron hissed.

"Yes, he was up to something, but we've no idea what!" Hermione cried, wringing her hands. She looked quite defeated, even distraught. "I'm not worried that he's dangerous, I just don't want to face him every single day, even just to do prefect duties and everything, that's going to be unbearable!"

"Relax, Hermione, it'll be all right," Ron told her, putting an arm around her shoulders and handing her a handkerchief, as her eyes were so over-bright with tears that it was inevitable one would fall soon. "Let's celebrate, eh? Here's to the end of our rule-breaking careers."

She managed a weak smile as Harry joined her other side and the three made their way toward the Burrow, where a cake was already in the oven, and streamers were already being hung in her honour. She'd have been so pleased to have the triumph to herself. Draco Malfoy would, no doubt, be beside himself with this opportunity to ruin her year.


	2. you look distraught, granger

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWO

_you look distraught, granger_

Hermione noticed almost immediately that the owl had its sights set determinedly on her, so instead of boarding the scarlet steam engine behind Harry and Ron, she held out her arm. The talons of the barn owl dug briefly into her sweater as it gained its balance, hooting in consternation. She held out her other hand, and it released one of the small envelopes in its beak, ruffled its feathers importantly, and took off again.

"Coming, Hermione?" Ron called from within the train.

She tore open the envelope as she made her way up the steps, frowning. It bore another message from Hogwarts, and she wondered at why it was so late.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_Please report to the prefects' compartment to coordinate initial patrol of the corridors until lunch. The Head Boy will be there to assist._

_Best wishes for your travel,_

_Professor M. McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

"You can't be serious."

A shiver rushed Hermione's spine and she didn't dare to look around at the disgusted voice only feet behind her. Choosing to run rather than face the enemy so early, she took off after Harry and Ron, half of a mind to change into her robes before heading to the prefects' compartment. For once, they were early for the Hogwarts Express, and she had a few spare minutes, so before Malfoy could notice her, she whipped out of sight.

"What's that?" Harry questioned, his green eyes finding the parchment in her hand.

"The usual rubbish, apparently I'm coordinating patrol with Malfoy," she murmured in discontent. "But Ron'll be there, won't you, you're a prefect too!"

"Oh yeah...I forgot..." Ron rubbed the side of his nose in an unhappy way. "And I'd hoped we could just ignore the oblivion out of Malfoy all year. I don't think I have to go for a bit, though, so, er...I'll catch up with you in a few minutes, Hermione."

"All right, I'll save the compartment for you lot and Ron'll be along in a bit," Harry said, opening a door to a compartment that already contained Neville, Luna, and Ginny. He smiled at the three of them and turned back to Hermione. "Good luck," he said seriously. "And hex him if he's unbearable.

"Right," Hermione said, somewhat uncomfortably.

She left her trunk in the compartment after digging out her robes and found a bathroom halfway up the train to change in. Hermione found herself staring in the mirror, frantically trying to tame her curly hair, but it was no good. As unmanageable as always, it fell around her shoulders, a casual disarray of brown strands. She straightened her collared, white shirt, tugged at the red-and-gold tie she'd been wearing for years, and smoothed the pleats of her grey skirt. Opening the door of the bathroom and picking up her cloak, she emerged, her Head Girl badge pinned to her chest.

Her cloak flapped in her wake as she strolled up the train, feeling her wand in the waistband of her skirt with some sense of reassurance. _I could always silence him, _she told herself desperately, _if it comes to that, at least, if I really can't tolerate him, and I could do it non-verbally and no one would be the wiser. Oh, Hermione, what are you thinking, of course someone would know..._

"You look distraught, Granger."

She paused, her hand on the doorway of the prefects' compartment, which was empty aside from the blond-haired boy unfolding himself from a nearby seat. He, too, had taken the liberty of changing into his school robes, though how he'd beaten her here, she couldn't guess. She'd always been under the impression that the Slytherins stayed in the compartments at the back of the train, far away from other, interfering houses.

She noticed his tie before anything else; it was livid, in alternating widths of diagonal stripes, portraying his house colours. The Head Boy badge pinned to his chest was clear as day, vivid against the stark white of his shirt. Draco Malfoy was a much taller and more imposing presence than Hermione Granger; she felt in his every twitch how much taller he was than she. He watched her with distaste and the hint of annoyance. Her brown eyes looked back at his, refusing to back down from the stare.

"Merely worried," she replied, taking a step into the compartment and removing her cloak. She draped it across the back of the seat across from Malfoy's. "This could be a very difficult year."

"Quite," he spat. "I've no idea what they were thinking."

His face was suddenly furious, but just as quickly as it had come, the rage subsided. "I want the Slytherin prefects to patrol the back," he continued, as though his outburst had not occurred. "Gryffindors up front. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in between."

"Bad idea," Hermione countered, frowning at him. "You're just saying that so the Slytherins can get up to no good and the prefects won't even report them."

"Well, I'm not bloody letting you and Weasley go to that end, either you'll give them all a hard time or they'll slaughter you." He didn't look as if he'd be displeased with this.

"I know that's not the solution," she bit out, her brown eyes flashing dangerously, but her tone was still determinedly civil. "Send Ravenclaw to deal with your House. There's not enough enmity to start a real fight, but at least it'll keep things fair. And vice versa, Parkinson and the sixth year Slytherins can watch the Ravenclaw area, Ron the sixth year Gryffindors will do Hufflepuff, the Hufflepuffs can watch Gryffindor. Keeps the two Houses with the most hatred for one another away from each others' throats, anyway."

"Why don't we all just watch our own bloody people and let it be?" Malfoy demanded, throwing up his hands and turning away from her. "Bloody hell, Granger, you have to make everything so fucking difficult."

"I am _not_going to stand aside and just let you let your people get away with everything!" she snapped. "And I don't want mine doing the same, either! This is not a game, Malfoy, this is a job, we _have _to take it seriously!"

"You do," he countered, his hands now clasped behind his back. "Did it ever occur to you that there are worse things than a few Slytherins acting up on the train?"

"Yes, it did, you foul, loathsome, pathetic specimen of a wizard—"

He whirled around, his blue-grey eyes jumping to her face. "Do not even presume to call me names, you jumped-up little Mudblood—"

"As long as we're here we might as well deal with our lot, it doesn't matter what's going on on the outside—"

"To you, maybe!" His voice rang with another sudden burst of absolutely vicious rage. "Just because your parents are safe and secure in the Muggle world—"

"Oh, and I don't suppose you call being locked away in Azkaban 'safe'?" she retaliated.

She had stepped on a nerve, or perhaps she had raked white-hot fingernails through it, because Malfoy yanked out his wand and pointed it at her.

"_ Silencio—_"

"_Protego_!" she cried, and with a flick of her wand, protected herself from the curse. The burst of light backfired into a chandelier, whose loud jangling from the motion of the swaying train suddenly stopped.

Their wands aimed at one another's faces, both breathing heavily, they listened to the eerie stillness of silence. She stared into his eyes, fighting the need to blink, rigid hatred in every line of both of their features. With an immense effort, she lowered her wand to her side. After a second's hesitation, he followed suit.

She turned to the chandelier. "_Finite incantantum_," she murmured, and the jangling of the crystal and candles was restored. "We can fight, I presume as much is bound to happen," she said over her shoulder. "But we can't go round cursing each other. It just looks terrible."

His silence lasted another few seconds. "Isn't it expected? Six years of hatred..."

"Of being taught that Slytherins are vile little serpents and Gryffindors are big, bumbling buffoons, yes, I expect most people _expect this_," she said viciously. "If you want to go along with the bandwagon, by all means, just kill me now and spare me a few months of pain."

He said nothing, and his face betrayed no feeling, but he tucked his wand away.

At that moment, someone burst through the open doorway, several people in fact, with wands drawn and obviously out of breath, as if they'd run halfway up the train. "We thought we heard raised voices," Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff panted, before his eyes took in the scene: Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy standing well apart from one another, both looking at the new arrivals and not at each other.

"Just a bit of an argument over patrol duty," Hermione said, forcing a smile. The wands lowered. Ron stood beside Ernie, as well as Hannah Abbott, the other Hufflepuff prefect. The two Ravenclaw seventh years were right behind them, Padma Patil with her hand still on her wand, and Anthony Goldstein watching the two Heads warily. "Come on in, everyone, and where are the fifth and sixth years?"

"On their way, I expect, can't be long," Ernie said promptly, tucking his wand away and moving forward to shake Hermione's hand. "Congratulations, by the way, everyone knew it would be you, of course, but no one deserves it more..."

She smiled, as always a little embarrassed at Ernie's pompous nature, but pleased nonetheless. "Thank you, Ernie."

There were other murmurs of congratulations as the Slytherin prefects arrived, and Ron strolled up beside her to mutter in her ear: "What were you two doing, duelling?"

"Nearly," she muttered. "No harm done."

He looked unconvinced. There wasn't time to harp on it, though, as the fifth and sixth years had entered, the fifth years looking somewhat nervous, the sixth years completely uninterested. "Right, sixth and seventh years, you know the drill," Hermione began. "Patrol the corridors for a bit, switch off, report any rule-breaking to either myself or Mr. Malfoy. Don't do it all day, give yourselves a break to eat and talk to your friends, but do make sure you're watching every once in a while."

"Ravenclaws, you're going back to the end section of the train, stay in that area unless you're taking a break," Malfoy broke in as Hermione paused. She glanced sideways at him, surprised. His voice was forceful but mostly free of anger or sulkiness. "Hufflepuffs, up front. Gryffindors and Slytherins in between the two. We didn't want any Gryffindors getting their heads taken off if they patrolled through our territory, so this is the plan our Head Girl suggested."

She ignored the smirk and the irritated mutters from the rest of the prefects; every Gryffindor wanted a go at the Slytherins. "That's final," she said firmly. "And if you know what's good for you, you won't complain. Fifth years, you're going to be with either Mr. Malfoy or myself. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, with me; Ravenclaws and Slytherins with our Head Boy. Just to introduce you to the idea."

"Get going," Malfoy barked at the remaining sixth and seventh years, and they headed for the exit, still muttering irritably. Hermione sighed and began to introduce herself to the remaining fifth years, forcing a smile. Her prediction that this could be a very difficult year seemed to be coming true, and rather violently so. Malfoy's calculating gaze watched the back of the brunette even as he introduced himself to the new prefects, still discontent from their brief, violent exchange. He felt volatile, uneasy; her wand had slapped his curse away as easily as if it was child's play. _Next time_, he told himself, nodding along with Pansy's fluttering voice, _next time I'll get her_.


	3. a silly girls' rumour

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

THREE

_a silly girls' rumour_

Draco Malfoy was more than pleased to be able to extricate him from the train, and, for the moment, from the presence of Hermione Granger, which hovered like an oppressive cloud around him. She wore some kind of perfume that had alerted him to her presence every time she approached down a corridor of the train; every time her brown eyes met his, even in passing, there was the glitter of defiance, of irritation, of a distant, strangled kind of pain. She was like a kicked dog who still struggled to maintain a powerful, brave façade. Her persistence irritated him.

He brooded to himself as he boarded a carriage alone; Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be found, and he wasn't particularly interested in the two, anyway. They'd gotten surly and irritable, especially since the Dark Lord's vanishing act had left their fathers once again standing in a foul light. He smirked to himself. Perhaps Granger had been right, anyway; his father was safe in Azkaban, and it wasn't likely that the prison was as brutal as before, since the dementors had gone. And his Aunt Bellatrix had survived her term before; it was doubtful that she couldn't do it again.

His thoughts followed him right along to the entrance to Hogwarts, where he found himself shunted toward a man he was rather displeased to meet right off—Severus Snape, his billowing black robes cascading around his thin frame, his hooked nose upturned. He was even taller than Malfoy, and though the boy usually was on good terms with the Potions Master, he was not at all interested in conversing with the overgrown bat now.

"After the feast, be sure to meet me in the entrance hall, Draco, we are to have a meeting with the Head Girl and Professor McGonagall," Snape intoned, looking down his long, hooked nose at Malfoy. "Do not look so disgusted, it was discussed in the letter that was sent to you that there would be a meeting. You are going to have to interact with Miss Granger, regardless of how...unpleasant...you may find her."

Despite himself, Malfoy felt his lip curl at Snape's forced political correctness. "Of course, sir," he agreed, his tone short but polite. Snape gave a curt nod and swept off toward the Great Hall. Across the Entrance Hall, he could see a pale but determined Hermione Granger talking in low tones to Professor McGonagall, who looked uncharacteristically worried as she reached out to place a hand on the Head Girl's shoulder. Malfoy shuffled closer, the raucous voices and many bodies in the Entrance Hall disguising his approach. He kept his head down, hoping to go unnoticed by the pair.

"I understand that this year will be very hard for you, Miss Granger, especially considering how much enmity lies between your friends and Mr. Malfoy..."

"Oh no, Professor, please don't worry. We'll be fine. I swear I'll do everything to uphold my duties, and I'm not going to cause any more strife than absolutely necessary." Her tone was earnest and firm. _Typical teacher's pet, _he thought, sneering, and allowed himself to be shunted into the hall by the crowd, making his way toward the Slytherin table.

"Be that as it may, Miss Granger, this is going to be a difficult year for all of us. There are challenges involved in your pairing that you cannot foresee." McGonagall held up her hand when Hermione made every appearance of protesting. "You will understand after the feast. Now go, sit with your House. I will meet you here when the Headmaster has dismissed us."

Feeling distinctly unsettled, Hermione wound her way through the chattering sea of students to where she could see Harry and Ron, just joining the Gryffindor table. She pushed through the crowd, muttering many half-hearted apologies as she stepped on feet and bumped people, her mind still on what McGonagall had said. _There are challenges involved in your pairing that you____cannot foresee..._

"What did McGonagall have to say? You look downright morbid," Ron commented with typical lack of tact. The chattering was beginning to calm down, people stretching and glancing hungrily at their empty plates and goblets. Overhead, the ceiling had a kind of oppressed violence to its numerous storm clouds. Outside, it still wasn't raining, but there was a distinct hint of thunder in the air.

"Just reminding me of the meeting I have with Malfoy after the feast. Nothing like ruining an appetite." Hermione's light voice shook slightly at the end of her statement; whether it was out of rage or distress, neither of the boys were sure.

McGonagall called for attention as she led in the new batch of first year students, all quivering with fear and cold as they glanced around, terrified, at the Great Hall. She focused—or made her best effort to focus—on the Sorting Hat's song, which was again clamoring for unity. Her eyes wandered as the first years collapsed at their new House tables.

"Hermione, you'll be fine. You're more than a match for him. Wish Dumbledore would hurry up," Harry added impatiently, "I'm starving."

As though at his cue, the Sorting ended, the four-legged stool was carried away, and the Headmaster rose from his seat. Hermione saw Harry's eyes rove immediately to the blackened hand still attached to Dumbledore's wrist. "He doesn't have much time left," her friend murmured. "That ring was cursed something horrible. Snape could only delay the spread...soon enough it's going to kill him, if they can't reach a cure..."

She could think of no way to respond to this, and neither could Ron, who, at any rate, usually wasn't the most reliable for words of bracing comfort. Instead, her eyes swept to Dumbledore's face, which appeared as cheerful and light-hearted as ever, if still a bit wan.

"After you enjoy a delicious meal, you will undoubtedly be subjected to drowsing words of wisdom," he announced over the silent hall. "For now, tuck in."

The room became a great clatter of plates , a bustle of noise as students agreed most heartily with the Headmaster's statement and reached for the food that now overflowed all plates. It was the typical start-of-term feast, long and brilliantly favoured, but Hermione's stomach ached after only a few bites. There were many more pressing things to worry about—Dumbledore's approaching death, the Horcruxes yet to be found, Voldemort's continued smouldering existence—but she dreaded the end of the feast, loathed the idea of being sat down in a room with Malfoy and told their duties, hated the fact that this year would have one more added torture: having to be cordial to the snake who called her Mudblood at every opportunity.

"Er-my-knee, 'oo 'ould ee omefing," Ron urged her, accidentally spraying Harry with a bit of mashed potatoes. "'orry, 'arry..."

Hermione watched in disgust as he forced himself to swallow. "No, no thanks, I think that's really ruined it for me." And though she had a bite of her favourite jam doughnut when the deserts appeared, she couldn't make herself take in a drop more. Malfoy sat across the Great Hall from her, talking cordially to a few of the younger prefects of Slytherin—they laughed—his eyes remained as hard as steel. She dragged her gaze from the sight and wished as hard as she could that it would be over quickly and she would be in her dormitory, sinking into a lovely sleep in her four-poster bed.

Dumbledore reminded them of the usual rules of the castle; no entering the Forbidden Forest, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes were strictly restricted products, and Quidditch try-outs would be held soon, to be discussed with the Heads of House and team captains. There was talk of Voldemort, for a few moments, when everyone grew quite still and silent and afraid. Hermione glanced toward the Slytherin table. Malfoy was brooding, staring at his water goblet, and quick as a flash, he noticed her gaze; his steely eyes met hers and her brown ones jumped away, back to Dumbledore.

The benches scraped as students, yawning and dragging their feet, made their way toward their House dormitories. Hermione sighed and stood, brushing a hand over her hair. "Well, I'll see you in a bit, in the common room," she told the two, turning towards the entrance hall.

"Good luck—"

"Yeah, no worries, Hermione—"

She pushed back through the crowd, searching for Professor McGonagall as she breached the entrance hall. The stern woman placed a hand on Hermione's shoulder and said, "Come. We'll be meeting in my office."

As they moved towards the first floor, the patter of hundreds of feet began to fade into the distance. Most students had taken off for the far corners of the castle and were not stopping to examine anything on their way to their comfortable, warm beds. For a fleeting moment, Hermione wished that she was among them.

McGonagall offered her the softer of the seats before her desk and sat down behind it herself. "We should be joined shortly by Professor Snape and Mr. Malfoy, I can't imagine they'd keep us waiting long—"

Her sentence was interrupted by the door re-opening. Malfoy came into the room first, his eyes not looking at Hermione, and took the seat beside her with ill-disguised irritation. "Forgive my student, I'm afraid his exhaustion is ruining his temperament," Snape addressed McGonagall as he closed the door with a sharp snap. Malfoy gave Snape a surly look, one that was returned with a black stare that the younger man looked away from quickly.

"Well, congratulations, you two," McGonagall told the pair, getting to her feet. "It has been a long, long time since we have had a Gryffindor-Slytherin pairing for Head Boy and Girl, but it was decided, in light of recent circumstances, that the time was ripe for another attempt."

"What do you mean, another 'attempt'?" Malfoy questioned, his voice heavy with sarcasm, but still curious.

"Pairs from the two houses, in the past, have not operated well together," Snape answered, joining McGonagall at the desk. "It has been found that the enmity is often too deep to make a successful team." His deep intonation raised hairs on the back of Hermione's neck; every word stood out with foreboding, though that wasn't so unusual, for Snape.

"We have higher hopes for the two of you, of course," McGonagall added, offering a dish of biscuits to Malfoy and Hermione, who both declined. "Your grades were a factor, obviously, but there are other criteria required in choosing a Head Boy and Girl. Determination, ambition, leadership...the most admirable traits in wizards and men must be embodied in the two of you, and you must reveal only this face to the school, the part that represents the best of all of us, so that others may follow your example."

"There will be responsibilities." Snape, Hermione noted, had not ceased to look downright unpleasant, no matter about what topic he was speaking. "Patrolling the corridors as a pair, running meetings with the prefects as a pair, organizing events _as a pair_. If we discover that you are managing to do so otherwise, your badge may be revoked."

"You have special dormitories to yourselves, to uphold your studies in the most comfortable environment possible and, indeed, to discuss matters with one another in as private a place as can be summoned for two students at this school – "

"Hang on!"

Both Malfoy and Hermione had gotten to their feet; it was unclear which of them had spoken. "We're _living _together? I thought that was just some rumour made up by a bunch of silly girls—" Hermione began.

"Sit down. Both of you." Snape's voice was a livid snarl. Slowly, the two sank back into their seats. "You will commit to this, and you will do your best to appear that it is nothing other than your utmost pleasure to do so. There is no option."

"For now, go on off to bed," McGonagall said, her voice weary. She didn't look at her colleague, and Hermione was visited by the uncharacteristic urge to hex her professor; she and Snape hardly got on at all, after all, was it fair that they were demanding it of witches and wizards much younger, and much less experienced, than they? "You'll find a portrait of a vase of red roses after a right turn at the north end of the Astronomy corridor. The password is 'Visionary.' You will find your trunks and all of your things in your rooms. Good night."

Recognizing the dismissal, Hermione stood up and turned to leave, opening the door and allowing her terror and rage to overcome her as she strode up the corridor toward the staircases. Malfoy's hurried, sharp footsteps caught up to her as she began to climb. They strode angrily ahead, moving with unnecessary force and speed, climbing to the highest parts of the castle in record time.

"This is rubbish," he spat as they passed the fifth floor.

For once, Hermione could admit that she agreed with him, though she wouldn't voice her most pressing reasons aloud. "_Utter _rubbish! How are we even supposed to keep watch over our Houses if we're not even living with them—"

"—forget that, how are we supposed to do our jobs, having to spend so much extra time together? They're _asking _one of us to commit homicide first."

They both stopped dead on the stairs, glaring at one another. The Gray Lady drifted serenely past, turning down a corridor on the sixth floor, appearing singularly uninterested in their conversation. After a few seconds of angry staring, Hermione was fed up and turned away, beginning to climb upward again. "You're not worried about being able to do your job, you just can't bear the thought of having to live in the same space as a Mudblood," she threw over her shoulder, but he had already caught up, and with his long stride had no trouble keeping up with her. "You've never had to deal with those, sleeping in the Slytherin dormitories. Everyone there is just like you, aren't they? Pureblood or at least half, despising all Muggle-borns and non-magic people. You just can't stand having to tolerate someone with different ideals around the clock. It's not about your _job._"

"You're not pleased about this, either, I don't see why you're going to go biting my head off—"

"Because you're pathetic!" she cried, turning to look at him as they breached the seventh floor. "It's ludicrous, _how _could they have chosen you, I don't suppose they looked twice at all the cruel things you did as a child, not to mention—"

"Oh yes, I'm sure you'll never get over the way I _tortured _you, all the snide comments, all the remarks, get _over _it, Granger. You're disgustingly nostalgic." He pushed past her, towards the end of the hallway. She turned the opposite direction. _I am __not____going to subject myself to this, with him, not tonight, _she told herself firmly, and made off for Gryffindor tower.

It was now well past ten o'clock, and she had to creep, because Filch could be anywhere, and that would look horrible for the Head Girl to be caught wandering out after hours. Upon arriving at the Fat Lady's portrait, though, she realized that she had no clue what the password was. The woman frowned down at her.

"You know the rules."

Hermione was on the brink of tears. If anything, she just wanted to see Harry and Ron, just to get her bearings back before she had to deal with Malfoy, but her own House was off-limits to her now. Neville was nowhere to be found—he could usually be counted on to forget the password, to be lurking in the corridor somewhere, and at least she'd've had company—but there was nothing for it. Defeated, she turned back.

By the time she retraced her steps to the seventh floor, a few tears had leaked out and streaked down her face. She did her best to wipe them away in the reflection from a window pane and then turned down the corridor where McGonagall had directed them. "Visionary," she said dully to the vase of crimson-red flowers, and it swung forward, the petals trembling lightly as though in some imaginary breeze. She took a deep, steadying breath, and stepped through the portrait-hole.


	4. the cat, displeased

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

FOUR

_the cat, displeased_

The common room was too beautiful to pass over with a quick eye. Hermione paused to enjoy it, just inside the portrait as it swung closed behind her. There were two armchairs, situated respectfully on opposite sides of the room, both equally close to the crackling fire, which gave off enough heat, but not too much. The room was done boldly in neutral colours; the wallpaper was of thick stripes in browns, lavenders, and royal purples. Neither of their House colours were represented. _I suppose they're trying to dilute the tension, _she thought, her mental voice heavy with irony.

There were desks, as well, close to each of their armchairs—big, dark-stained, mahogany things, with drawers and book ends and enough space to do several classes of homework on, a place to set an inkwell, a notch to stand up a quill. There was also a couch, squashy and comfortable-looking and large enough for two or three, directly in front of the fireplace. Hermione glanced around, and, seeing that the Head Boy was nowhere to be found, removed her cloak and shoes and sank into the couch, her toes wiggling towards the flames. "_Avis_," she murmured, and conjured a small flock of bright yellow birds, which were birthed into existence just beyond the point of her wand. With another murmured word she conjured up a poker and found some chocolate and marshmallows on the mantle, which, whether or not she was planning on eating, she could at least roast by the fire until she felt well enough to go to bed.

She slid a marshmallow and a piece of chocolate onto the poker and held it out over the flames, ruffling her hair back from her face and sniffing. It was no good, whenever she cried her sinuses got completely blocked. She supposed her eyes would be red and puffy until morning, and maybe even then. The thought depressed her further and she felt a familiar burning start in her nose just as the marshmallow began to look very melted.

"I thought you were leaving."

She very nearly dropped the poker into the fire. Instead, she withdrew it hastily and looked around to see Malfoy emerging from the closed door on what he'd obviously claimed as his side of the room and his bedroom. He was looking at her suspiciously and she turned back to look at the fire, wishing she'd thought to wash her face on her way back to the room.

"I don't know the password into the Gryffindor common room, it wouldn't let me in. And it's too late to expect someone to come along and open it for me."

She looked at the severely melted, and somewhat burned, marshmallow, dripping with chocolate, and felt completely uninterested in it. "Would you like some?" she asked, feigning politeness.

He came around the couch, suspicion still all over his face, the usual sneer still lingering around his mouth. "You haven't poisoned it, have you?"

"If I have, I dare say you'll be able to tell," she countered, holding the poker out to him. Cautiously, he conjured a plate and reached for the graham crackers in a dish on the side table. As he did so, he got a closer look at her face.

"Have you been _crying_?"

"No," she snapped, her tolerance breaking again, "I've just splashed water in my face and rubbed my eyes till they're red." She shook her head and with a scathing snort fed another marshmallow into the fire. "I just can't believe this," she continued, "that they would give Head Boy to you, of all people, as if we're really going to manage to get along and not kill each other!"

"Well," he answered, "I'll try my hardest, but I can't promise anything." Carefully, he wiped a smudge of chocolate away from the corner of his mouth and continued to eat the s'more. "Very American food, this, isn't it?"

Hermione shrugged. "If Dumbledore had anything to do with preparing this room, he has rather odd tastes." She had a feeling it wasn't that simple, though – s'mores had become something of a favourite food to her lately, ever since she had travelled to America for a week last summer with her parents. They'd had a shot at camping, and a few cheerful campers had joined their fire and introduced them to roasted marshmallows, melted chocolate, and crumbling graham crackers. Had her preferences been listed, was the room stock by house-elves who knew her tastes, her likes? If so, then where were Malfoy's dearest-loved items?

As he finished the s'more, she found the answer. He reached for a little dish on the side table; it was filled with what looked like a combination of dried fruit and nuts that had already been broken out of their shells. There were dried cranberries in there, one of her favourite types of fruit. He saw her looking and his silvery eyes narrowed. "Don't even think about it."

She shook her head and drew the poker out of the fire again, blowing on the marshmallow before plucking it from the end and biting into it. After swallowing, she commented, "I shared with you."

"It doesn't have to go both ways."

Her brown eyes rolled, and she popped the rest of the gooey marshmallow into her mouth. "Have it your way. I'm not always going to attempt to be civil, you know, and it's just going to get worse if you keep behaving like a spoiled little boy. Good night."

She left the poker beside the fire and traipsed through the door that led up to her room, ignoring Malfoy's huff of indignation and subsequent silence behind her. As she climbed the small, spiral staircase up to her bedroom, her tired fingers worked at loosening her tie, unbuttoning the stiff white shirt. Below, she heard the door click shut, locking behind her.

The room was small, but took use of its floor space. Her bed, a four-post mahogany thing, slim but comfortable, was against the wall beside the window, with enough space beside it to squeeze in a night stand. The view of the grounds and forests from this vantage point was quite beautiful. Her trunk was upright beside her desk. She merely paused to dig out her stripy gold-and-red pyjamas and change into them before flopping into bed. Brushing her teeth, combing her hair, all of that could wait until morning, along with unpacking. For the moment, she would be satisfied with a deep, long sleep.

…

"Fuck! GRANGER!"

Hermione, curled into a ball in the centre of her warm, comfortable bed, managed to crack open her eyelids. She prayed that the shout she'd just heard had been in her imagination, the remnant of a nightmare, and that all was peaceful outside her door.

"God damn it! Get off me, you stupid cat! GRANGER! GET YOUR ARSE DOWN HERE AND CALL OFF THE TIGER BEFORE I KILL IT!"

"Not the most pleasant way to wake up in the morning," she murmured, but she grabbed her wand, tumbled out of bed, and headed for the door, traipsing down the spiral staircase with dragging steps, still yawning. She was still half-asleep, or she would have realized that her hair was curly and unruly as ever, and she was wearing blatantly Gryffindor pyjamas, which certainly wouldn't start the day off right.

"You stupid little beast, get OFF of me..."

"Crookshanks!"

The orange, bowl-legged cat was mewling and scratching, hissing at Malfoy, who couldn't get out of his door with the thing clawing at his ankles, raking his legs. As she watched, Crookshanks leapt up and took a swipe at his chest, which Malfoy barely dodged. A kick aimed at the cat also missed. "Crookshanks, come here," Hermione called, squatting down to the ground, and with a last hiss, the cat bounded away from Malfoy and into her arms, curling up there to watch the blond with narrowed eyes and a scrunched mouth, as if ready to release another stream of mewling.

"Er...sorry," she managed, holding the cat close to her chest. The furious anger in those silvery-blue eyes was enough to make anyone take a few steps back, and it was directed at _her cat_, whom she'd been protecting from angry men for all too long now. "He, um, doesn't like strangers...very much."

"Forget not liking strangers, that thing practically ripped my _skin _off," he snarled, finally able to stalk into the common room and throw himself into his armchair with unnecessary force. It hit the wall with a bang. Sparks flew out of the wand he was holding in his hand.

"I'll just shut him in my room, he won't do it again that way," she said, and nudged Crookshanks through the door before closing it. They could hear his plaintive meowing and occasional scratching even with the door closed. Nervously, she tucked her wand into a pocket of her pyjamas, hoping that he wouldn't use his on her in his fury. "I've no idea how he even got out, I thought he was next to my trunk last night."

"Apparently," he panted, "the thing's very talented." He still looked furious, but more in control. His hand hadn't gone to his wand. He appeared reluctant to curse her.

She glanced down, finding it was too early in the morning to stare down his gaze. The hems of his green-and-silver silk pyjamas were in tatters from her cat's claws. "Would you like me to fix that?" she asked politely. "My cat did do the damage, after all." She stifled laughter; after a short examination, she had realized that their pyjamas were very nearly the same, except for the colour difference. "You're not hurt at all, are you?"

Irritably, he stuck out his right leg. Blood ran in thin rivulets down the skin through the material, where Crookshanks had assaulted him with violent claws. "Oh, damn it all," Hermione muttered, and turned towards her desk, where she half-hoped there would be bandaging supplies so that she wouldn't have to suffer the humiliation of accompanying Malfoy to the hospital wing.

There was essence of dittany in one drawer and beside it a few cloths and a bowl. She pointed her wand into the bowl, muttered "_Aguamenti_," and let it fill with clean, clear water. She brought a cloth, the little vial of dittany, and the water with her. Malfoy had slid to the floor and seemed determined to go on a rant.

"That bloody animal, you should have it put down," he spat, as she lifted the leg of his pyjamas out of the way and pressed a cold, wet cloth to the wounds—with a little more pressure than necessary. He winced.

"Yes, Ron's been telling me so for years, it ate his rat once, you know," she said. She felt unnecessarily light-headed. The situation was uncomfortable, and it was making her sound like Luna Lovegood, what with the breathlessness of her voice and the eagerness to brush away the unpleasant atmosphere. "But he usually has his reasons, and no one else was going to buy him but me."

"You're well matched in temperament," he complained, as she finished clearing off the blood. "Completely friendly one moment and totally barbaric the next—ouch! Dammit!"

"It's not _my _fault dittany stings," she retorted, as a small puff of steam rose from the wound. New skin had sealed over it, and he leaned forward, inspecting the previously bloodied leg. She swatted him away and began siphoning the blood off of his pyjamas, resigned to the task of patching him up now. "And you should speak for yourself, you're not exactly the most sunny of personalities."

He snickered. "Forgive me for not wearing bright scarlet-and-gold pyjamas like I belong to an American circus."

The comment could hardly be classified as snide; in comparison to his usual tone, it was almost as if he were poking fun at her. Distracted for a moment, she glanced up, meeting his eyes. For a moment, they flashed with something she'd never seen in them before—genuine, easy cheerfulness.

It was gone, of course, the moment she noticed it, and she looked back to her work. Having cleaned off the dried (and still wet) blood from the fabric, it could be repaired. "_Reparo_," she murmured, still unnerved by the flash of human she had seen in Malfoy's eyes, and the fabric knitted itself back together. "If you hadn't noticed," she added, "the colours are different, but the style and the fabric is exactly the same."

Her eyes met his, challenging, as they both got to their feet, and a smirk stole across his lips, albeit briefly. "You _do _think you're clever, don't you," he said. "But you're just a silly little Gryffindor."

"Perhaps," she remarked, "but that's better than a vile little Slytherin." She turned back towards the door to her room. "I'm off to have a wash and yes, to do something about the hair that you're about to make a rude comment about." She flapped a hand in the air, as if this were meaningless, as she turned the doorknob.

"The bathroom connects our two rooms, I believe," he said, a rigid sort of indifference to his voice. "Good thing I've already had mine, because I feel it'd take the better part of the day to fix _that _mess." And he stormed off for his own room, for all the world like a five-year-old boy throwing a tantrum, minus the tears and with extra rage.

Already, Hermione felt a wearying sort of routine falling into place. While not totally desirable, it also wasn't quite as unbearable as she'd believed it would be. She got ready for class with a significantly lighter heart.


	5. absolutely unpredictable

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

FIVE

_absolutely unpredictable_

Her hair had curled in a less bushy way today, Malfoy noted, from across the room in their N.E.W.T.-level Potions class. She had clasped it back at the nape of her neck, a few strands escaping in a relaxed sort of way as she leaned over her potion, stirring auspiciously and dropping in a spring of peppermint, precisely the right size and contour for the tricky concoction we were making. Another brown strand loosened, golden threads standing out in the murky light of the underground classroom, filled with shimmers and glimmers of stewing broth. Her nose was scrunched in anxiety, her tie loose at her throat, her brows knitted as she watched anxiously for a change of colour, or some other factor to announce that she had achieved the next stage.

His own potion was well along to the state of hers, perhaps not quite as perfect—the right shade of turquoise wasn't evident, for some reason—but still an admirable attempt, at least, to Horace Slughorn, who gave a nod of approval while passing his table. Malfoy smirked.

There were few seventh-years left in this, the highest level of academic achievement; one Hufflepuff, three Gryffindors (typical of Potter, Weasley, and Granger to stick it through), four Ravenclaws, and the same number of Slytherins, all crowded around their three separated tables, Hufflepuff and Gryffindors banding together. Weasley was easily the worst in the class; already the scent of a foul stench was emanating from that side of the dungeon room.

"Well done, Miss Granger, no need to look so anxious, your knowledge continues to be admirable," Slughorn cried genially, patting the Gryffindor girl on the shoulder as he swept around to gaze into her potion. "Yes, well done, well done, you've become more inventive, I see, that's a good sign, my girl—"

A scowl flitted over Malfoy's face, and he gave his potion a harder stir than absolutely necessary. The colour and shimmer of air over the fluid changed, nearly imperceptibly, a little closer to turquoise. He stirred harder, and it continued to shift, bit by bit.

"Caught on, have you?"

Her voice was light, almost teasing. Since the beginning of the week, she had adopted this attitude toward him – the I-couldn't-give-a-damn, what-a-silly-little-Slytherin attitude that had him grinding his teeth and struggling not to hex her. He had already lost so much, spent himself in his rage against her, that is was hard to feel more, but her smirk, flashed in bright, white, straight teeth, goaded him into further shouting matches that she simply walked away from. He had no idea what had come over her, but it was infuriating.

She was rinsing a ladle in the sink close to his table. The other Slytherins looked up with mutters at her presence.

"Only second to you, Granger, that's not so unexpected," he retorted, glancing into his cauldron. Bright turquoise greeted his eyes. "Nor will it last."

She scoffed lightly, dried the ladle, and returned to her table. His eyes followed her, the confidence with which she suddenly held herself, the smirks she exchanged with her friends. Potter had made significant progress on his potion as well, MacMillan hovering somewhere behing him, looking more anxious than Hermione had. Her nose scrunched up again as she leaned over Weasley's potion, detailing in a clear voice the ways he could fix it. The obnoxious know-it-all tone—as though she'd ravenously eaten every word in their textbook—had gone. The feminine lilt was gentle, poised, encouraging, not abrasive or arrogant.

_What on earth has gotten into her?_

Harry and Ron were beginning to wonder, too, because the hardened resolve Hermione was showing to the face of Hogwarts was astonishing. They had never seen her go so long without losing her temper or doing something unnecessarily harsh, or breaking down in tears, and she was in the most challenging situation she'd been in yet. She was _rooming_ with a dangerous, foul-mouthed, horrible Slytherin—and she appeared perfectly, absolutely fine.

She glanced up from her potion to find the two studying her yet again. From the corner of her eye she could also spot Malfoy watching her in a disgruntled sort of way before returning to his potion. "What?" she questioned, scooping a measured amount of the substance into a small crystal phial for Slughorn to grade. She was assured a good mark on this potion, she was confident of it.

"You're starting to scare us, Hermione, you should be having a mental breakdown right now," Harry voiced, his tone dropping to a volume that Malfoy, across the room, wouldn't hear. "I would be dead nervous if I was you, living with that ferret, having to fear him prowling around while you sleep."

"Forget nervous, I'd be terrified," Ron said bluntly, dumping a bag of something-or-other into his cauldron. The thing sparked.

"As would I," Ernie interjected. "There was a rumour going round that Malfoy had become part of You-Know-Who's inner circle before he vanished. Replacing his father, you know."

Hermione saw Harry and Ron exchange an uneasy glance and ducked her head, frowning. Malfoy still wore long sleeves – if not all the time, then always when in company. She'd never seen his bare arm, though Ron and Harry had asked, repeatedly, all week, if she'd gotten a glimpse of the Dark Mark they were sure he'd been tattooed with. No such luck. He was always extremely clothed, his flesh hidden from sight. But then, weren't they all? Wasn't that the norm, not an exception?

The bell rang from deep in the castle, and Slughorn called for them to pack away their things. "Good thing dinner's next, I'm starving," Ron commented as they slogged towards the door. Malfoy had already left the room with his bunch of Slytherins, and they were out of sight up the stairs. They started the climb upwards to drop off their things.

"One moment, Miss Granger! Can I have a word?"

"Probably wants to congratulate your superior potion-making," Harry muttered, and Ron guffawed. Hermione, shaking her head and stifling laughter, turned back to the professor as the two boys continued on without her.

"Promoting a little House unity wouldn't be inadvisable, m'dear," Slughorn said heartily as she approached him. "I've noticed you and Mr. Malfoy are rather at odds, but I'm sure the lad is just a little rough around the edges. Goodness knows the other professors would be thrilled to see your interactions succeed."

She attempted a smile, though it didn't quite meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, sir, but I doubt that Mr. Malfoy and myself will ever become bosom friends."

"No, of course not," he mused aloud, stroking his enormous moustache while watching her in a calculating manner. "You're quite in different leagues of...well, everything...still, though, a little friendly interaction wouldn't go amiss. A chat in the halls, eating together at meals once in a while, sitting near one another during class...It would encourage, you know, the breach of contact Slytherin has suffered from the other houses. That may take years...but you could start a reaction..."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir," she said, privately believing there was no chance at all, and with a nod and heavy sigh, he allowed her to leave.

Back in the Great Hall, Hermione spotted Malfoy sitting on his own at the Slytherin table, levitating what appeared to be a peach. Crabbe and Goyle were out of sight; even Pansy Parkinson was not with him, instead hanging onto Blaise Zabini's every word. Scanning the crowd for Harry and Ron, she made her way down the Gryffindor table.

"Wonder why Malfoy's sitting on his own?" she mused aloud as she took her seat beside Ron.

"I don't bloody know, maybe all his git friends have decided that evil people needn't eat," Ron said, exasperated. Harry laughed, and Hermione, too, felt a smile curl up her lips. "But that would make him all right, right, and we know that isn't the case."

"I wish we knew, whether or not he'd joined their ranks," she muttered, for the first time in several days betraying a flicker of annoyance. "It's not as if he's dangerous, he obviously hasn't got their skill, it'll be a punishment for his father's mistakes, I suppose, but all the same – "

"You're rambling, Hermione. Hush." Ginny had taken her seat across the table beside Harry. A typical grin lit up his face as she kissed his cheek. Ron had subsided into a mutinous sort of silence, but at a nudge in the ribs from Hermione, he made an attempt at a more light-hearted expression. "Though I don't blame you, my nerves would be fried if I was living with _that_ in my off-hours," the redheaded girl continued.

Hermione sighed. "I miss the common room, being part of Gryffindor. I feel so separated up there."

"Not to mention, I get this uncomfortable itchy feeling in my throat whenever I try to tell you the password," Ron said, his face contorting as he loosened his tie. "It's bloody unbearable."

She hadn't yet reached for food, and had half of a mind to follow Slughorn's advice. _House unity is eating a meal together in full view of the whole school, right? _ she told herself, dread building up in her head like the worst of migraines. _There are much worse things..._

She rose from her seat. The three Gryffindors stared. "Where're you going, you haven't even eaten anything!" Ginny protested, pushing a plate of food towards Hermione.

"You'll see," the older girl said grimly. "I'm trying out Slughorn's advice. Come rescue me if I get cursed." And she was off, her bag swinging beside her, to make her way around the tables in her path and straight into the heart of enemy territory.

The Slytherin table was on the opposite wall of the Great Hall from the Gryffindors, and as such, eyes turned to watch her as she passed Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. From the high table, several professors looked on in interest as she moved closer to the Slytherins. None of them had noticed the slight hush that had descended on the hall, and possibly wouldn't have, had she not approached so closely. When she was within feet of the table, a few glanced up. Hard glares met her presence. She paused a few feet from Malfoy.

"Well, sit down, if you insist," he said, in an unceremonious voice, waving a hand to the rest of those at the table. He was still levitating the piece of fruit, and glanced away from his efforts toward her; he seemed utterly unsurprised. A few Slytherins passed some last, menacing glances before turning back to their food. Talk gradually resumed in the Great Hall.

"You should really eat something. You're going to go on looking peaky forever if you don't." She didn't know what made her say it, but she wanted to take the words back before they even fully left her mouth. Instead, she occupied herself with settling her light bag on the bench beside her, and then leaning forward to look at the choices of food, though she had hardly any stomach at all after what she'd done.

Not surprisingly, he was glaring at her, but when she felt brave enough to look at him again, a brief smirk flitted across his face. The peach dropped into his open hand and he took a bite. "Was waiting on you to get here, it's inconsiderate to eat before a companion sits."

For the first time in several days, she lost her composure; her mouth dropped slightly open. "How did you...?"

"Slughorn put you up to it, didn't he? I heard the two of you talking. All that House unity garbage." Seeing her about to question him again, he added, "I hung back. What, have you never lurked in corridors to eavesdrop before?" His voice was heavily sardonic.

She then noticed that he hadn't dropped off his schoolbooks, after all—he must have brought his usual bag with him to avoid being later than she to the Great Hall. "I expected you'd want to try it out straight away," he added casually, picking up another piece of fruit from the centre of the table and holding it out to her. "Being a bit of a teacher's pet, and all." It was a pear, cold, juicy, and ripe, which she took from him with mingled feelings of exasperation and confusion. "Quite honestly, my money was on several of these people hexing you, but I suppose they just can't be bothered."

Indeed, the table had subsided into ignoring the pair of them, though Hermione sensed that she wasn't the only reason they were receiving the cold shoulder. It appeared that Malfoy's popularity had dwindled in the last year. "Well, obviously this won't work," she muttered, feeling foolish for even having tried, and made to pick up her bag.

"You might as well stay and eat. Saves drawing more stares when you make your way back across the hall, face aflame with embarrassment, to friends who will loathe what you just attempted. Save it for when you have a full stomach. And eat the damn pear." He began reaching for more food at the centre of the table. These platters they had all to themselves, as the students on either side of them were several feet away. It was as though they were contagious.

Utterly bewildered, Hermione pulled a plate towards her and examined the platters holding food. It was a bit different than the Gryffindor table. There was a lot more fruit, for some reason—and a complete absence of peppermint humbugs—and the things that were similar looked somehow different. There was a charred-looking pork chop with what smelled like raspberry dipping sauce beside it, very congealed but thinned when poured onto the sizzling meat; the steaks were braised with herbs she hadn't encountered recently; the mashed potatoes had a creamier look to them. There was a greater abundance of vegetables, too, which made the whole centerpiece quite colourful. She chose a pork chop, some of the potatoes, and several selections of the fruit. The raspberry dipping sauce was actually quite good, and the potatoes were flavoured with a bitter cheese taste, which she supposed had made them creamier. She helped herself to some vaguely sweet carrot sections, as well.

They ate in relative silence. The Great Hall began to empty around them, with a few interested glances their way and a few discontent mutters from Gryffindors and Slytherins alike, but general apathy on the part of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. "Well, it's a start, I mean, I'm not dead," Hermione said, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness as a particularly large Slytherin made his way out of the Hall, cracking his knuckles aggressively as he passed.

"But you could be, if you hadn't done it the way you did. People don't curse someone who looks so determined, it's more amusing to watch them try and get their way." She hadn't noticed a few snickers up and down the table. Her cheeks reddened slightly. "It's quite like a Gryffindor, elbowing through with bravery and—"

"—don't you dare say 'an absence of intellect,' because you know it's not true."

He shrugged. The desserts had appeared some ten minutes ago. Dark chocolate and, again, more fruit—cooked and baked in odd, new ways—graced the table. Less was sweet. More had surprisingly bitter tastes, with hints of something delicious beneath the surface. There was a nettle wine, too, but Hermione noticed that only the seventh-years—or perhaps those who were seventeen years of age—were allowed to touch it. The rest were rebuked with burnt fingers. She thought this unusual. Typically, the adults in the Wizarding world whom had surrounded her rarely accessed any sort of alcohol, excepting Hagrid, but most of the older Slytherins at the table enjoyed a goblet of it before moving off towards their dungeon common room. Before she could decide whether or not she would try it, Malfoy had poured her a goblet and handed it to her.

"It's rather good. I doubt the elves send this up to Gryffindor, it's an acquired taste that they rarely appreciate."

It was very dark, and, accordingly, very bitter. A deep, browned scarlet in colour, the sharp hint of nettles was terribly evident in its taste. She tried not to pull a face, and sipped politely, struggling to accept the civility of his tone without question. He carefully lifted a board of cheeses and placed it between them. "Try it with the Boschetto al Tartufo, it's a truffled Italian cheese that goes well with dark red wine," he said casually, pointing out a mostly white, somewhat speckled cheese. He had already helped himself to a small plate of several of the cheeses, a goblet full to the brim with the wine, and a smaller goblet of water. As he sipped, his eyes closed, appearing to relax into the alcohol. She watched apprehensively. Apparently, the taste was good.

The Boschetto al Tartufo was strong, but the flavour added a new dimension to the taste of the wine that removed some bitterness and interjected a pleasantly salty, meaty flavour. She nodded, her features pleasantly surprised. "It's an interesting taste," she conceded, taking another nibble and sip.

To her surprise, he laughed. It wasn't a real laugh, or even a snide chuckle, it was just a huff of air that was expelled from his lips as they turned up in a brief smile. There was a flash of genuine enjoyment on his face—he wasn't even looking at her, but she glimpsed it, or was she imagining things?—and he commented, "You're doing it wrong." She was mid-sip when he tipped up the bottom of her goblet, forcing her to take a whole mouthful. "Now, swallow about half, breathe, swallow the other half. _Then _taste the cheese. About a teaspoon of it." The smile lingered around his mouth, though he turned back to his own food. Her eyes round with confusion—he was almost _normal_, he was almost _human_—she followed his advice. The taste evolved. It was delicious.

The Great Hall had emptied by now. They were some of the only two left. "I think it's safe to say they've taken the example, for now," he said, and got to his feet. She glanced around; Harry, Ron, and Ginny had left without her, though she couldn't particularly blame them. "Quite a heavy lesson to try and pass off on them for a Friday night, Granger."

"You know me. Eager to please. I wouldn't want to be removed from the Slug Club." This last was sarcastic. She swung her bag onto her shoulder and left the wine and cheese on the table. They left the Great Hall, an awkward sort of silence descending between them, wondering whether to drop the charade of feigned politeness—_but is it a charade? _Hermione wondered. _He seemed genuine..._

"It's like a different world, the Slytherin table," she commented. "Just so you know. The food at Gryffindor's is different. Not terribly so, but you're right that we don't have nettle wine. Or any wine, for that matter." She stopped speaking. She felt she was giving away too much, was rambling, when really, she needed to keep the cool head she'd been so proud of for the past week.

"Perhaps I should try it out tomorrow morning."

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at him. It was too good to be true. "You're willing to try for this House unity thing?"

He stared at her, complete conviction in his silvery eyes. She nearly stepped right through the trick stair she'd been neatly jumping every year for six years. "Well. Have we got anything to lose? And besides, the teachers will be satisfied if we appear to make an attempt."

The climbed the rest of the stairs and retired to their respective rooms in silence, a brief, "Good night, Malfoy," and "Good night, Granger," exchanged before separating. Hermione felt uneasy. There was something too quick about Malfoy's decision to go along with her plans. And it would be just like that vile little serpent to sabotage her, though how he would manage it, she hadn't a clue, nor could she even contemplate what his exact motivation would be...


	6. fear

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

SIX

_fear_

"We could even enter the Great Hall together, if you'd like, Granger."

"Oh, shut up."

"I don't fancy sitting with Potty and Weaselbee, though. They might hex orange juice onto my shirt."

"You're doing it _wrong._"

It had only been a week and the Head Boy and Girl were bickering as though this weren't a big deal, as though they weren't skulking around corners watching one another warily, waiting for secrets to be found out and fights to be had. She stepped over to where he was straightening his tie for the sixth time in front of the mirror in the common room, shouldered between him and the glass, and yanked it into place so hard that he nearly choked.

"Are you trying to _effing kill me _– "

"No, I am dead tired of watching you do it over and over and over again." More gently, she smoothed out the silvery-blue material. It was a kind of fabric that seemed to match his eyes perfectly. She appreciated the attempt to look less like a Slytherin, but somehow, she doubted it would work; the haughty look on his face, the obviously expensive clothing, couldn't be erased with the swipe of a wand or the absence of house colours. The white shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and somewhat more casual than usual, made him look less pale, his platinum hair less white. His eyes moved down to hers as she finished fixing it and stepped away from him. "There. _Now _we can go."

"We're going together, then?"

"I almost miss you cursing me. You can be horribly annoying."

"Do we have to sit with them?"

"Well, I dealt with your ridiculous House last night, it's only fair you deal with mine."

"I meant..."

"Wait. Your sleeve's crooked."

He literally growled as she paused to fiddle with it, trying to fold it back neatly. "For Merlin's sake, you're not my fucking mum, woman—"

Hermione's heart leapt to her throat. Her features froze, terrified. She had lifted the sleeve too far. It was his left arm. There was nothing for it. The truth was there in the murky, hazy Dark Mark that she'd caught a glimpse of, just the corner, malformed because of Voldemort's absence, but there, in the flesh. Her eyes met his, shocked, brown into grey and back. He looked no less stunned, no less wrong-footed, than she. Their faces were close; he had been turning, reprimanding her, leaning down to get a look at what she was doing, and her chin was uplifted, staring into his eyes with an undeniable fear. _Oh, Merlin, Gryffindor and Dumbledore, _she thought, wanting to back away, but she was frozen, terrified, unable to budge, her fingers still on his sleeve, the black ink just inches below her fingertips.

"I don't know what you expected," he said, his voice low, strangely calm. His breath touched across her face; it was scented with peppermint. She blinked, momentarily dazed, paralysed by her own fear. He still hadn't hexed her. "It's not exactly a surprise, is it?"

"I...we thought..." She swallowed, struggling to marshal her thoughts.

"You thought there was no way that the Dark Lord would recruit a sixteen-year-old? If that sixteen-year-old's father had made a grievous mistake, if he had been responsible for the imprisonment of his fellows, for exposing the Dark Lord when the Ministry was doing such a good job of ignoring his presence?" Malfoy yanked his sleeve away from her and straightened it himself. "Well, you were wrong, weren't you?"

She stood there, her hands at her sides, staring at him; she felt as though she'd never seen him before. He was a Death Eater. Malfoy was a Death Eater. Every time she had rebuked Harry's instincts about the matter, she had been wrong. Woefully wrong. And now she was living with him, sleeping two doors away from him, going to classes with him, _tolerating _him...

"Do you...regret it?" she ventured, quite unable to think of anything else appropriate to say.

He paused, his back to her; he brushed his hand over his hair, ensuring every strand was in place. His face looked oddly bloodless. "He was going to kill my family," he muttered, his voice quiet. "You wouldn't have done the same?"

"I wouldn't have been given the option." Her voice trembled. "I'm just a Mudblood, Malfoy. He would kill me in a heartbeat, and think nothing of it."

"Luckily, I have more fortunate circumstances than yours." He turned to face her again. She'd never before noticed how very, very tall he was, and how very, very small she felt in comparison.

"Fortunate? I would rather be dead."

"And I would rather serve, and be killed doing it, than allow my family to die for my cowardice," he snapped. His eyes were focused directly on hers. "I don't care if you think you've got the right of it. You're dead wrong. If you've got a decent bone in your body you would've done the same."

It was a little much, Malfoy lecturing her on decency. A bit rich, a bit too close to the nerves that were already escalating out of control, because she was in a room with a Death Eater, a Death Eater who might now be interested in killing her. She knew his secret. "Does Dumbledore know?" she asked, veering away from the subject he'd ranted about.

"Undoubtedly. He has not approached me. With the Dark Lord gone again...it doesn't matter."

She took another few paces back, ready to head for the door. They wouldn't dine together this morning. It was too much, too much for her to handle. She felt the colour still draining from her cheeks. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his. "You're terrified," he said, quietly, "aren't you?"

It was just that they'd been interacting so normally, until a few moments ago—bickering, swearing at one another, yes, but not pointing wands, they were just _different, _as different as a lion and a snake could be, but they were making due, they were—and now it was ruined, it was impossible, her heart was about to explode from fear, being in a room with him, knowing his secret, was surely suicide, she should be running, screaming, defending herself—

"I'm not going to kill you."

She shuddered, finally ripping her eyes away from his, her hand tightening on the wand she hadn't realized she was holding.

"I don't have the stomach for it. Never have. And there's no reason to. The Dark Lord's gone, hasn't he? He's not watching me tolerate a Gryffindor, a Mudblood, a traitor." His voice paused. He took a few cautious steps toward her. She leapt back, again, her hand on the doorknob now, ready to run. "Oh, Merlin," he said, his voice exasperated now. "Granger, I swear I'm not going to hurt you—"

"I don't trust you!" Her voice was shrill. Her eyes leapt to his again. He looked taken aback by her sudden exclamation. "How can I know that, how can I even sleep peacefully, knowing that there's a Death Eater two doors away, how can you expect me to believe you—"

"You don't understand—I don't _want _to hurt you—"

"How can you say that?" she shrieked, lifting her wand. He mirrored the gesture, possibly preparing to defend himself. "All you've done for six years is torture and prod and attempt to get me and Harry and Ron hurt or in trouble—you expect me to _believe _you don't want me dead—"

"Damn it all, Granger, it's a big step from wanting you in detention to wanting you _killed_—no—_Protego_!"

She'd attempted to stun him, non-verbally, but her terror gave her away in the movement of her wand. The curse bounced, and a delicate-looking vase smashed. "Calm _down_!" he shouted, but she wasn't to be dissuaded; her wand became a blur, her terror fuelling her, it was all he could do to block the jets of light thrown at him, one after another, struggling to wrong-foot him, to upend him, to leave him vulnerable...

She backed up the staircase to her bedroom, jinxes still being fired and being dodged. He was trying to fit in a few of his own, now, of half a mind to paralyse her until he could manage to calm her down; he closed the distance between them, using his height to an advantage. By the time she staggered backward into her room, he was mere feet away.

"_Petrificus totalus—_"

"_Protego_!" he shouted, throwing the curse off, and as she paused, momentarily stymied, her mind going blank, he dove at her, tackling her to the ground, trapping her beneath him. Her wand flew out of her hand, landing with an inaudible thud on the carpet and rolling under the bed. His wand was no use, pointing aimlessly toward the wall; he was using most of his strength to keep her down, because she was putting up an admirable fight.

"Stop, stop, stop!" he growled, trying to hold her down. "I don't _want _to hurt you, but you're being downright _absurd_, this is ridiculous—"

Her eyes were watching him, wide, terrified. She wouldn't stop squirming. "Please," he begged, his voice pleading, "please, just _stop_, for a few minutes! I'm not going to kill you!"

Her writhing subsided. Her brown eyes were still round and scared, darting all over his face, and he knew that she was thinking, hard, of a way to get out of this. He didn't know what to say, what to tell her that would convince her that he wasn't about to go on a killing spree; he was a Death Eater, but he was hardly the most prominent of them. Just a replacement for his father's mistakes. He liked to torture people once in a while, liked to get into fights, but killing, he'd never been able to, it was...difficult...for him to imagine taking another life...

"'I bet it's a matter of time before one of them's killed this time...I hope it's Granger,'" she said, suddenly, her voice dry with what he suspected was an oncoming sob.

He stared down at her, astounded. "That was..._years_ ago...and I was in the common room...how did you know I even _said that_?"

"That wasn't Crabbe and Goyle," she whispered. "It was Ron and Harry. Polyjuice potion. We were trying to figure out if you were the heir of Slytherin. I would've been there, too, but I added the wrong hairs by mistake. Thought they were Millicent Bullstrode's. They were her cat's. I was in the hospital wing for weeks...but they told me everything you said..."

Their faces were close. Her breath smelled of spearmint toothpaste as she breathed, her eyes closed now, as though determined not to look at him. He continued to hold her down, perhaps out of fear that she'd get up and run and shout the news to the castle if he let her go. "Okay, let's face it, you're not my favourite person on the planet," he conceded. She squirmed a little. He tightened his grip. "And I wouldn't mind, you know, not having to deal with you on a daily basis. But it's not like I'd be the one who personally killed you. And I was _twelve_. I'm sure you said a lot of things when you were twelve that you didn't really mean." She stared at the ceiling. He sighed irritably. "You're being ridiculous."

"You're an _effing Death Eater_." Her voice was quiet. He left his body draped over hers, for the most part, and rested his head on her carpet, turning sideways to watch her speak. "I always told Harry he was wrong, that there was no way..." She laughed, the sound bitter. Disbelieving.

"Are you going to tell?" he asked, quietly.

She turned to face him. The energy seemed to have left her. Her brown eyes looked into his. He felt something in his stomach lurch. He couldn't bear the pity and the fear in the eyes that usually only held anger and irritation and revulsion when they looked at him. "You're not going to kill me, or anyone else?" she whispered. He'd never noticed before how deep a pink her lips were. It was almost...a pretty contrast...to her pale skin. A bit of colour was coming back into her face.

"I told you. I can't stomach it. Aunt Bella...she always made fun of me for it. That I could boss and push everyone around at school, but when it came to torturing, to killing, I couldn't get enough meaning behind it. My mother was pleased. Her only son..." His voice was bitter. "Perhaps she wanted something better for me."

They lay there, on the floor, looking at one another. "And I was beginning to think that this year might have a semblance of normalcy," she said miserably. Her eyes closed. Black eyelashes against her pale skin and light spattering of freckles, weariness in every line on her young face. His stomach lurched again. He felt irrevocably drawn to her. He tried to swallow down the feeling.

"It's not so different." His voice was low, strangely soothing. Her nose wrinkled in disbelief. "I just have a label now, to you."

She heard him get to his feet, his weight lifting off of her. She opened her eyes. He was holding a hand out to help her up. The instant she was upright, he released her. "Perhaps we should wait for breakfast," he said, brushing his blond hair back into place. "Monday would be better."

"Yes," she said, faintly. "Yes, I suppose that would be better."

He left. Downstairs, the portrait out of the common room closed with a sharp click. She was alive. He was gone. She sat down, hard, on her bed. Crookshanks leapt up beside her. The cat had been hiding during the night. She didn't reach out to touch him. Her hands felt limp in her lap. She was still seeing the pleading in Malfoy's grey-blue eyes.


	7. a wary peace

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

SEVEN

_a wary peace_

"What kept you?"

Her appearance was normal, at least, she reminded herself—had it not been, they would have commented on it. Ron's eyes were watchful, staring at her, concerned. Harry's and Ginny's were replicas, question marks looking her way. She sat down and pulled a plate of toast towards her. "Just Malfoy being himself, again," she answered, buttering a piece of toast for herself. "Not surprising."

"What was that last night, anyway?" Harry asked, reaching for the pitcher of orange juice and pouring himself some more. "Did Slughorn really tell you...?"

"'Promoting House unity,'" she answered, and giggled a little. They all relaxed. _Who knew I was such a good actress? _she laughed to herself. "Yes, it's all garbage, you've seen what they're all like, you know it'll never work, but it pleases the teachers and it's only once in a while. He was surprisingly cordial about it. He would've joined us for breakfast this morning, but...we had a bit of a row..." She smiled again, as if to say this weren't a big deal. "So it's probably better off waiting for Monday."

They were sufficiently convinced, she could see that already. "You seen his arm yet?" Ron questioned. "Just out of curiosity."

Her hands might have faltered with her knife, but she quickly righted herself. "No. And you both know it's utter rubbish, Voldemort wasn't about to bring a sixteen-year-old into his elite circle of Death Eaters..." She stifled a fake burst of laughter. "He would consider it so beneath him, wouldn't he? He has much cleverer, stronger wizards at his disposal than _Malfoy_..."

Ron gave Harry a look that plainly said, "I told you so," and went back to eating his sausages.

"So what are we up to today?" Hermione asked of the table in general.

"Well, it's Quidditch first, just a start-of-term practice for the older members; try-outs are next weekend," Harry answered; he was digging into a large bowl of porridge. "And then we were thinking of visiting Hagrid's, you're coming, of course."

"Why wouldn't I? I'd love to see Hagrid."

She felt that there was something too challenging in the way Harry had said that, as though he expected her to opt for an afternoon studying in her common room, with Malfoy undoubtedly nearby. This was just absurd. She wasn't at all interested in going any nearer that man than she had to. It had been proven, hadn't it, that he was at least moderately dangerous, no matter how genuine he appeared...

…

After a relaxing afternoon watching them all play Quidditch, and going to Hagrid's for a visit filled with rock cakes that they politely refused, the three returned to the Great Hall for dinner and were joined by Ginny. Hermione couldn't help but look round, once, to see if she could glimpse the Death Eater she lived with, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nonplussed, she continued with her dinner and stayed with her Gryffindor friends until they decided to retire to their common room for the evening to work on the weekend workload that so many seventh years already felt piling up. She found herself missing the Slytherin food that she had tried the night before; that steak had looked interesting, and she hadn't had the chance to taste it.

She felt bemused with herself for the thought. Waving goodbye to Harry, Ron, and Ginny, she turned down the corridor towards her common room, wondering if Malfoy was out on the grounds. She _did _have work to do, that was for sure, but she was curious where he got to...

"Visionary," she told the roses, and slipped into the common room.

He was there, relaxing on the couch, a plate of food beside him on the table. He looked up when she entered; she detected a flicker of interest, fear, even wariness before his features melted into their formerly stony appearance. Tension jumped into her shoulders, just being in his presence. It was something to be afraid for your life every second of being around a person you couldn't get rid of. "You weren't at dinner," she commented, removing her cloak and placing it on the little hook beside the door.

"I didn't feel like it. Nicked some food from the house-elves."

"It's not fair to call it nicking, they like to just push it at you, really—"

Again, that odd laugh; a half of a smile, a rush of expelled air. It was as though he'd forgotten how to do it. He sobered at once, though. "Hey, Granger," he said, as she sat down in the armchair with her Arithmancy book, "what's it like?"

"What? Being a Mudblood?" she asked sardonically, scratching her nose with the end of her quill. "Well, Malfoy, it's quite dull, really, you see, we spend half our lives thinking we're psychotic because we can do odd things and then we get this letter and come to this school where at least a quarter the population despises us..."

"Not that." He waved this off with a hand. "Having friends."

Her head lifted; her eyes narrowed. He was staring into the fire. Was he..._depressed_? Was that the emotion there? "I don't understand what you mean," she said cautiously, feeling as though she was walking into a trap.

"Sitting over there, with Potter and Weasley...laughing...having a good time. You act like you really _get _each other. Like it's not just for show."

"Yes, well...it's not. We do. I mean, ever since we knocked out that mountain troll together first year, it's been impossible to _not _be friends. Me and Ron row a lot, but it's all just our personalities clashing, really..."

"Wait, wait, wait." He held up his hands, signalling for her to slow down. "A _mountain troll_? The one that got into the castle?"

"The one that Professor Quirrell let in, you mean," she scoffed. "It was terribly big."

"I'd...heard rumours...but how did you three end up getting to it? We were all supposed to go back to our dormitories."

"You act as if you've never broken rules, Malfoy."

He smirked. She smiled, but ducked her head quickly to hide it. "So what happened?"

"Well, er, we weren't all friends yet. I mean, Ron and Harry were, but I always annoyed them, I acted like too much of a know-it-all. So, Ron said something...something about me having no friends because I was unbearable...I spent the day crying my eyes out in the toilet, all through the feast as well. And then when I'm about to come out and go to bed I hear this grunting, and a click, and this victorious shout, and I looked out of the stall to see this enormous mountain troll in the loo with me. Turns out Harry and Ron had come looking for me because they knew I didn't know about the troll, and they didn't realize it was the girl's bathroom and they locked in it with me. They apparently realized what they'd done because they burst in—and Harry leapt onto it, distracting it—and Ron knocked it out with its own club. So, well, that's how we became friends."

She busied herself with her Arithmancy book, aware that he was staring at her quite as though he'd never seen her before. "So...that's it?" he pressed, when she said nothing more. "That's all it takes to become friends for _six years_?"

"Well, I mean, there's quite a lot more to it!" she said, exasperated, looking up at him once more. "We've been through a lot, you know—it's about loyalty and liking each other and putting up with each other—I mean, you have Crabbe and Goyle, don't you? And all your Slytherin friends."

"No," he corrected her automatically, having turned around fully now to look at her. "No, we have...a series of debts to be repaid...services to exchange...the strong leading the weak. It's not...friends, exactly, it's..."

"It's bloody worthless, in other words," she interrupted. "How do you _live _like that? Everyone needs friends."

"No," he countered, "or I wouldn't be alive."

She made a face. "You know what I mean."

"Well, do I look like a well-adapted individual to you?" he snorted.

"No," she said, immediately. "But, I mean, it's nice, you should try it some time. You end up with people who care about you no matter what...and all that rubbish...they're completely devoted to you, even your flaws, they like who you are, they wouldn't be the same without you. It's nice, being needed like that." She felt abruptly embarrassed, a blush creeping onto her face, and looked down at her book again.

"I never said I'd _like _it," he said, on the defensive immediately. "I was just wondering. You always seem to be having such a grand time. Must be nice. Once in a while."

"Yes, well, it is." She didn't look up. They fell into a wary, uncomfortable silence. A quick glance showed her the books upon books of open homework, waiting to be done on the couch beside him. He didn't seem to be inclined to start or finish it. There were half-written essays and crumpled pages of notes. He cleared off the space, piling the books on the side table beside his food.

There was a brief pause, and then, with a murmured incantation, he conjured another goblet and tipped the bottle of wine into it, pouring out the scarlet liquid within. "Wine?" he offered, his voice a struggle to sound careless, but she knew an invitation when it was handed to her, even wrapped in grubby packaging. She towed a bag of her books along with her as she took her seat on the couch, accepting the nettle wine and a bite of sharp cheese, keeping a space between them, but feeling less like she was about to be hexed into oblivion.

They settled into an uncomfortable sort of peace, sitting with food and drink and roll after roll of parchment, scribbling out assignments and reading deep into the night, all of it passed in silence but for the occasional comment or question about a subject they had in common. By the time Hermione retired to her bedroom, he had fallen asleep against the arm of the couch, breathing deeply into a textbook. She hesitated before pulling the book from underneath his head and placing a pillow there instead, gently tugging the quill from his hand and pushing his inkwell out of reach where it wouldn't spill. His breath, for a moment, caught, and she wondered whether he knew she was there. Carefully, her fingers caught at his sleeve, lifting it back away from his wrist. For a moment, she took in the Dark Mark that was faded, motionless, into his flesh, barely discernible, inactive. She shook her head, and let his sleeve go.

His eyes opened as she retreated to her room. Her scent—like apples, and melting brown sugar, was it her soap or a perfume?—lingered behind her in the air. He breathed deeply, and drifted back to sleep.


	8. breaking and entering

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

EIGHT

_breaking and entering_

Monday morning dawned bright and unusually cool for a September day. Hermione, most unusually, had woken late, and was now scrambling into her school clothes, pushing her hair into a haphazard bun, washing her face hurriedly. Malfoy's goading was strangely absent; in fact, she couldn't hear him at all. She wondered if he had gone down to breakfast without her, despite their plan to dine with Gryffindor today. Though it scarcely mattered to her, she felt a little offended he hadn't at least been polite enough to wake her, as abrasively as he would have done it.

When she finally got through the doorway of the Great Hall with the last of the stragglers, however, a strange sight met her eyes. Malfoy was, indeed, already there, and he was sitting with Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

She watched in awe from the doorway. Malfoy leaned forward, saying something, and Harry let out what looked like a reluctant laugh. Even Ron had the flicker of a smirk on his mouth, and Ginny had ducked her head, as though unsure of what to say. It wasn't a relaxed, or easy, conversation—but it certainly wasn't an all-out brawl. She could see the tension in each of their shoulders, every eye watchful, ready for a wrong move, but...they were being civil. A genuine smile pulled up her lips before she could stop it. It was astonishing that any of them were even _trying._

"Yeah, I, erm...I was a bit insensitive, you could say," Ron was saying sheepishly as Hermione approached their spot on the table, her eyes still slightly wide in surprise. "Oh, good morning," he added, his voice a little higher-pitched than usual as he turned to look at her. His features appeared strained.

"Good morning," she said cautiously, as she seated herself beside Malfoy, separating him and Ron.

"It's a good thing you warned them. I think they would have cursed me otherwise," he said calmly, in explanation to her wide stare. "Sorry I didn't wake you. You were studying late."

Ginny's eyes were wide, too. _Is he being considerate? _she mouthed at Hermione, who shook her head slightly, just as bewildered as the younger girl.

"Erm...thank you," she said, courteously, and her voice, too, was a little higher-pitched than was normal. Upon a glance at all their plates she realized that Malfoy was the only one eating. With a warning glance at the other three, she pulled a plate toward her and picked up a few pieces of bacon. The others followed suit, scrambling to grab food. "What were you saying?" she added, turning to Ron.

He swallowed his food, most unusually, before speaking. "He was asking about the mountain troll incident."

She glanced up towards the high table, where many of the professors had ceased eating to watch what was going on. McGonagall and Snape both appeared ready to leap from their seats to intervene; Hagrid looked downright nervous, more than once accidentally spearing Flitwick's hand with his fork. "Looking for another perspective?" she asked.

"Well, I must say, you left out a few bits. I might've said the same if you'd rubbed it in about being able to perform a spell and insulting the way I tried it—"

"Oh, shut it, it wasn't like I was _rude _about it—"

"You weren't rude?" Ron butted in, his tone coloured in disbelief. "That's weird, because I definitely remember you being rude."

They all laughed, excluding Hermione, who kept a stony visage, and Malfoy, who snickered instead. "Well, it was a load of dumb luck, I suppose, but I'm amazed you managed to knock that thing out, Weaselbee."

"Oh, Merlin, must we call names..." Hermione muttered, hunching down in her seat a bit.

"No, it's all right, quite all right, as long as I'm given permission to call him 'the amazing bouncing ferret' whenever I choose," Ron snapped back, his ears turning a bit pink with the strain of sounding as civil as possible. Tension shot up again. Malfoy's lips tightened. Ginny's head ducked again, and Harry watched the pair of them, Hermione trapped between. She could tell he was gripping his wand beneath the table.

"I see your point," the Slytherin conceded, his voice cool. "Weasley, then." Ron hardly stopped himself gaping. Hermione nibbled on her bacon. "So how did you knock it out?"

"It was brilliant, really," Harry eventually said, into the sudden silence, because Ron appeared incapable of saying anything. "_Wingardium leviosa_. Just like that. Dropped its own club right on its head. It smelled something terrible."

"Have some marmalade with that, it's good," Hermione broke in, pushing the dish towards Malfoy. He paused and lowered the crumpet he'd been about to bite into.

"I see what you mean, about it being different worlds," he told her, and, to Harry's puzzled look, "we've different food on the other side of the Great Hall."

Another glance toward the high table ascertained that McGonagall and Snape had gone back to their breakfasts. Hagrid alone remained worried. Hermione waved to him with a reassuring smile and took a bite of her own crumpet with a strangely light feeling in her chest. The talk progressed, strained and exhausting but conversation nonetheless, and the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs seemed less surprised than ever, and the Slytherins had hardly noticed Malfoy's absence; it seemed the right day for this sort of thing.

…

"Is he, er, actually adamant about this? Does he think it's going to _work_?"

Harry and Ron were taking advantage of the class they had without Malfoy, Herbology, to demand of Hermione in whispered voices what exactly that morning had been all about.

"I don't know," she repeated. "I'm telling you, I can't read his mind." She felt a nasty lurch in her stomach; even if she tried, she was sure he would be overly exceptional at blocking her. "He doesn't seem like such a git anymore, though, does he?"

"It makes me bloody nervous," Ron growled, dumping more soil than was strictly necessary over the plant they were repotting. "The way he just caved this morning, right, not calling me 'Weaselbee' anymore, it's rubbish, Malfoy would never do that unless he has an ulterior motive—"

"I thought so, too, but I mean...that kind of act would be hard to put on, wouldn't it? Maybe he's just bored," Harry interjected. "It's an abrupt change, though, isn't it?"

"I think we can expect a relapse," Hermione interjected softly, cautiously leaning forward to prune one of the many trembling branches of the cutting. It dodged her fingertips. "He's so unpredictable..."

"Didn't used to be. Could always count on a curse or an insult. Don't see what he's got to go ruining that for."

Having seized hold of the vine, Hermione's eyes lifted and stared at Ron, incredulous. "You _want _him to go round hexing everybody at the slightest provocation?"

Ron grunted and seized hold of another of the vines.

"Don't worry," Harry muttered. "He just doesn't want to have to be friends with the git. Nor do I, if it comes to that."

…

It was nine o'clock at night, and Malfoy had not returned to their common room, and despite herself, Hermione was starting to get worried.

They had not dined together, deciding to let the matter rest for the time being. Everybody seemed more relaxed at dinner, with the absence of something new and terrifying that they didn't want to try out. Her mood had been slightly depressed by this, but did it matter, really—they both knew it was a long shot, and it wasn't as if either of them were all that interested in 'House unity' turning out, anyway. She'd seen him leave the Great Hall, having eaten with the Slytherins, and had assumed she would find him in their common room, but instead, hour by hour, had by degrees become more worried until her current agitated state had her glancing towards the clock and the portrait-hole, wondering where on Earth he was.

It was some thirty minutes past the hour when there was a hoarse voice and dragging footsteps, and he tumbled through the portrait-hole, his face ashen, and crumpled into a heap beside the couch.

Hermione leapt up as the portrait clicked shut behind him. "What happened?" she demanded, dropping to her knees beside him, but all that he emitted was a kind of guttural groan.

"_Wingardium leviosa,_" she said in a shaking voice, pointing her wand and lifting him magically onto the couch. Hastily, she knelt beside him, trying to ascertain the damage. Two brilliant black eyes were beginning to form, and his nose was bloody and broken. She stared, appalled, as his eyes rolled up into his head. He appeared unconscious.

With shaking fingers, she undid the buttons of his cloak and coaxed it off, trying not to move him unnecessarily. She lifted his head and piled the few small pillows that were on the couch behind his neck, keeping him somewhat upright. She allowed her hand to stop shaking before pointing her wand at his nose and whispering, "_Episkey._" The cartilage pushed itself back into shape; she saw his forehead crinkle. The black eyes began to recede as blood vessels knit themselves back together, and his head slumped to the side on the pillows.

There was blood soaking through his white shirt, too, spreading from his lower torso. Her hands scrambled to undo the buttons of his shirt, pulling his already loosened tie from around his neck and dropping it to the floor. He awoke at that moment, his hand automatically going to hers, stopping her. "Don't, I'm fine," he muttered, but his voice was weak.

"Let me fix it." Her voice pleaded. "What happened?"

He shook his head and let go of her hand, grimacing. She undid the rest of the buttons and pulled the fabric from his pants, opening it over his chest. A few ribs looked broken, judging by the bruising; there were a few scrapes, as though he'd hit the ground or been thrown very hard. His left sleeve had been ripped open. She avoided the sight of what lay beneath the torn fabric. "Who did this?" she questioned, her voice shaking slightly, though her hands were steady as she set about fixing the wounds.

"A few of the Slytherins...were questioning my loyalty." He had tried to inhale too deeply, and his ribs cracked in a horrifying sort of way. A pained expression crossed his face. "It took...longer than expected...to assure them that eating with Gryffindor was all part of the act, an act to satisfy...the teachers, the Headmaster..." He grimaced again. "The Mark seemed to both convince and terrify them, but they'd done their damage by that time."

She summoned the dish and towel from the drawer in her desk, and filled the bowl with warm water. Her hands shaking with renewed vigour, she dipped the cloth into the water and began cleaning the blood away from his wounds. He gave up on trying to stop her and slumped back on the pillows, his eyes closing again.

Her heart pounded with a combination of anger and confusion. Was it true, then, that this was an act, a show for the teachers who had appointed him, for the school who knew he was Head Boy and had to act accordingly? She had begun to believe otherwise, that there was something else to Malfoy besides what existed on the surface, but now, she was more unsure than ever. "You're just a series of masks, aren't you?" she murmured quietly, pressing the cloth to his face, wiping away the blood. "The all-mysterious Draco Malfoy."

He scowled, eyes still closed, and turned his head away from her. "Stop," she reprimanded. "I'm trying to _help _you. I know you hate admitting you need it, especially from a Mudblood like me, but you're just going to have to deal with it for the time being. _Episkey._" The ribs began to heal. He let out a grunt of pain as the bones reset themselves, his arm twitching as though to wrap it around the wound. Her hand closed around his wrist and held his arm there for the duration of the spell—only a few seconds, but his small sounds of agony filled her ears.

She tossed the cloth back into the bowl and set it down on the table. "You'll be fine," she said, a little more sharply than she intended, and turned to go.

There was a rustle and a small cringe of pain, and he got to his feet behind her. When she slowly turned back around to face him, his wand was pointing directly at her chest. "You think you know everything, don't you," he snarled. She backed up. He followed her, his wand still pointing at her chest, his steely eyes still on hers. "Hermione Granger, top of every class, perfect little intelligent student, you think it's all easy, don't you?"

Her hand twitched toward her wand, poking out of her pocket, but before her fingers could even make contact, he snapped, "_Expelliarmus_!" The wand flew away to a corner of the room.

"You don't know anything," he breathed, advancing on her still. She kept backing up, but eventually, there was nothing left to back into; she'd hit a wall, not near any doors, no route to escape. His wand was still trained on her.

Oddly, she didn't feel nearly as terrified as she had during their last confrontation. Perhaps, because she was so aware of the danger already, she didn't have room to feel afraid; now, she just needed to get away from his wand. It was at her throat now. She could feel it touching her skin. His hand splayed against the wall behind her, right beside her head, bracing his body; he leaned closer. They were less than inches apart, and his words whispered down into her face, tiny puffs of wind.

"You've never had to make a choice. For you, it's been so easy, all along. You didn't have parents looming over you, twisting you and moulding you into what they wanted you to be. You didn't feel the pressure of anything but staying top in everything. When you had to choose whether you would fight for or against the Dark Lord that choice was already made for you. He wouldn't accept someone with dirty blood."

Her head swam. His eyes were close and glaring. She was unable to break the stare. "You didn't even have to think, you just had to follow Potter and Weasley. You had to _do the right thing_," he spat.

"You didn't think either," she breathed, though a voice in her head screamed that she was committing suicide with her words. "You just did what you were told."

"I was forced into a shape I might not have chosen. And I chose to keep my family alive, even if it meant dying for what he asked me to do." His face contorted. "While your friends formed a teenager's gang, I watched my father obey orders and undergo torture for every misstep. While you bandied about struggling to tell the world that the Dark Lord was back, he was already coercing my parents in every way possible. You've never been in a room with him, have you, Granger? You've never had to fear for your life when his eyes look round at you..."

"No," she scoffed, as lightly as she could. The wand was still touching her skin. "Surely, being Harry Potter's best friend isn't enough danger! While you were sneaking around trying to get us expelled, we were trying to stop the Sorcerer's Stone being taken. While you were hoping for my death at the hands of Slytherin's monster, I was trying to uncover who was setting the thing loose, which turned out to be your father, by the way. While you enjoyed the advantages of the Inquisitorial Squad, Harry was strung up as a martyr, Dumbledore was labelled a fraud, and the Wizarding world dissolved into panic. No, I've never feared for my life, obviously! Not even when it became obvious that Voldemort would stop at nothing, nothing to kill the people who meant the most to Harry Potter!"

"Don't say the name!" he snarled.

"What, are you afraid of it? Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort!" she sang, ducking under his arm and diving for her wand. A flash of light just missed her as she grabbed hold of it and skidded round, about to jump to her feet again. "_Stupefy!_"

He flicked it off with a casual sweep of his wand. Then there was a lurch, an uncontrollable heave in her stomach, and she felt as though her mind were splitting in two—

_It's not a wonder she hasn't got any friends—_

_The troll was cornering her, it was no good, every spell had gone out of her head..._

_"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood!" Draco Malfoy was glaring at her, the malice in his eyes unbearable, she knew he'd said something awful and felt a lurch in her stomach; it was just unbearable, how absolutely rude he was—_

_She was thirteen, and Ron wasn't speaking to her, Crookshanks had killed his rat and she knew it was unfair, unfair that she didn't apologize but the way he looked at her as if he hated her—_

_It was alright, dancing with Viktor Krum, she was enjoying herself, he was so likeable, but Ron had turned nasty yet again, and she felt so miserable by the end of the night that she'd rather have not gone to the dance at all..._

_"Oh, my God...that's a dead body."_

_Even from a distance she could hear the turmoil surrounding the entrance of the maze, something wasn't right, not right at all, and Cedric Diggory was dead, and Voldemort was back, and Harry looked as though he was dying—_

_They were cornered in the Department of Mysteries and Lucius Malfoy was sneering at them—and then a mistake on her part allowed a Death Eater to cast a non-verbal spell that made her crumble, utterly useless, to the ground..._

_And she was sixteen and bursting with jealousy and misery while Ron snogged Lavender Brown— _

and she was lying face-down on the floor, shivering and cold, her wand out of her hand again, laying uselessly on the ground beside her. His footsteps came over, a polished shoe nudging her onto her back. Her hand scrabbled for her wand. She felt as though she might be sick. His eyes were unreadable, and her voice was hoarse when she tried to speak. "You had no right—"

Casually, almost, he stepped over her, through the door to his room, and out of sight. She curled into a ball on the floor, shivering wildly. For what seemed like hours on end, she cried.


	9. apologies

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

NINE

_apologies_

Malfoy and Hermione didn't speak for the next several weeks.

They did homework in their bedrooms rather than sharing their common room; they never crossed the Great Hall to eat together; for all everyone else knew, each of them had become partially blind, unable to see the other. In Prefect meetings, they managed to be so stiffly formal that each and every one of the Prefects was bored to pieces. They never patrolled the corridors together at night. There was such minimal interaction that Hermione was certain her voice was soon vanish from lack of use. He had drifted back into the circle of Slytherins like Parkinson and Zabini, and they were hanging all over him; it seemed easy for him to become the life of the party again. Ron and Harry didn't question the sudden split much; after all, they had been expecting a "relapse", as Hermione had phrased it.

The problem was that she had to spend so much time in his vicinity, anyway, and it was utterly terrifying. She shied away from his merest glance, not wanting to give the opportunity for him to break into her mind again; she started studying the art of Occlumency, though she doubted it would do much good without someone to test her. At least she'd have a fighting chance if it happened again.

She hardly slept, fearing every moment that he would burst into her room and kill her; every night, she cursed herself for not telling someone, anyone, that she was being forced to live with a Death Eater. But come morning—and Hermione Granger still alive—she would resolve, again, not to spread the word. What good would it do, if Dumbledore already knew? The Legilimency he had employed against her, now, that was something that could be reported. Still, the days went by, and she breathed not a word. Her memories, thrown so vividly in her face like that, were holding her tongue. She avoided him. She crept through the common room to her own bedroom to avoid his notice, to stay well outside of his earshot. Her wand was on her person at all times. Taking showers in their shared bathroom became the worst moments of those long weeks—she was so vulnerable there—and she took to using the school showers instead.

One night in mid-September, though, she awoke drenched in sweat at two in the morning, gasping for breath. The nightmare chased her out of sleep and refused to let her back in, slamming the door in her face. She felt sticky and terrified, and wanted nothing other than a cold shower to clear her head. It would be impossible to navigate the school at night with Filch and Mrs. Norris roaming around. She slipped out of bed. She needn't be afraid of him, she had decided. She had the perfect right to her own cold shower.

Hearing no noise from his adjoining bedroom, she turned on the tap and cold, clear water rushed out. Sighing gratefully, she stepped out of her clothes and slipped under the stream of freezing water, drenching her hair and body in liquid ice. She upended the shampoo bottle that she hadn't used in weeks, scrubbing out the vestiges of the nightmare from her scalp. The whole affair was very soothing.

Just as she'd finished, stepped out, towel-dried her hair, and wrapped her body in the soft, fluffy towel, the door on Malfoy's side of the bathroom banged open.

Horrified, she took a step back. His sleepy eyes found her and he stopped on the spot, frowning. He was wearing nothing but boxers; his bare chest and stomach were sculpted, but not rock-hard. He lifted a hand to his head and rubbed his eyes, as though he couldn't see her properly. "Hermione?" he muttered. "Why're you showering this time of night?"

The sound of her name froze her in place. Her _first _name, not her last, not a horrible insult, but her _first name_. It was the first time she'd ever heard him say it, except for in tandem with her last name. It was the first time in weeks that he had even addressed her.

"Are you...alright?" she asked uncertainly, feeling very unsettled.

"Fine. Just...dream," he grunted, shaking his head. Blond hair scattered everywhere. He looked a mess, but a lovely, handsome sort of mess. Half in sleep, he didn't seem even remotely dangerous. The mark on his arm was nothing more than an echo of a shadow. "I don't sleep well, usually."

He was waking up now, though, probably as a result of seeing her standing there, in a towel, smelling strongly of a fruity sort of soap that was very stringent indeed. "Did you just take a _shower_?" he asked, raising a single eyebrow.

"Erm...yeah. I, uh, had a nightmare." Her feet shuffled. She didn't want to take her eyes off him—in case he attacked suddenly—but she couldn't look at his gorgeous body any longer, so she looked at his knees. "So, um, a cold shower sounded good."

She heard the sound of Malfoy scratching the back of his head. "I thought you were scared to shower here." There was a bit of sarcasm, but only a small amount.

"Yes, well, I can't exactly go wandering the corridors at night, can I?" she said, shuffling her feet again.

"Look," he said, very flatly, "I'm sorry. Can you at least look at me?"

She lifted her head. He was staring very intently at her. "You're what?" she asked, confused.

"I'm _sorry_. For breaking into your head. It was...wrong." If he'd had a collar to tug, she could bet that he would be tugging it, but as it was, his hand continued to rub the back of his head in an embarrassed sort of way. "I was just...angry, and in pain."

"I was trying to help you," she said, her voice quiet.

"I know. I'm just..." His face twisted. "I'm not used to people trying to help me. There's usually an ulterior motive."

"I was hoping that the Golden Rule would be sufficient."

"What?"

"Treat others how you would like to be treated."

"I would be dead if I held to that kind of..." He struggled, trying not to insult. "...ideal."

He was trying, at least: trying to be nice, trying to make amends. She nodded, trying to understand.

"I'm sick of not talking to you. Of pretending you don't exist. It's really hard to keep tiptoeing around like this." She felt embarrassed for admitting it, but didn't take her eyes off his. "It's just so tiring."

He nodded. His hands had dropped from the back of his neck. "I guess. You're right. It's got to stop."

They looked at one another, steeling themselves for the inevitable. "Let's just...shake on it," she said, hopelessly. "That we're going to try not to kill or hurt each other from now on."

He nodded. "Deal." His hand swung out and grasped hers. For a quick second, their eyes met, cool silver into warm brown, and a smile hitched up the corner of her lip. Almost reluctantly, as though it wasn't a conscious decision, his mouth twitched into a smile, too, small but real. "I have a question, though."

"Yes?"

"Are you in love with Weaselbee?"

She sighed heavily, and dropped his hand. "What on Earth gave you that impression?"

"Just..." He gestured to her head, as though unwilling to mention the incident aloud now that they'd agreed to move on.

"Oh." She shrugged. "I think I've grown out of it, to tell you the truth. He's a bit immature. I used to find that endearing, but..." She trailed off.

"But now that you're living with a real man, you find it childish?"

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and turned towards her bedroom. "Good night, Draco."

His snicker followed her, and so did his eyes: his eyes traced her delicate shoulder blades, outlined under her skin before swooping down to be hidden beneath the linen of the towel. Her wet, wild hair smelled of something fruity and delicious. Draco Malfoy was still partially asleep, and so he found it perfectly acceptable to think that, half-naked, glistening thinly with water, her hair wild and free, she looked sort of beautiful.

He didn't miss that she'd used his first name.

…

"Wake up. We're going to be late."

Hermione's eyes opened and, automatically, she yanked her blankets so hard up to her chest that her shoulders screamed in agony. Unfortunately, the blankets didn't move much. Apparently, Draco's weight was akin to a boulder. "You don't have to startle me like that," she stammered, wondering if the night before had been a dream, but the way he was looking at her—with less hatred, and more attempted friendliness—seemed to suggest that it hadn't been.

"We're eating breakfast with Slytherin this morning," he told her, getting to his feet. "So, seriously. We can't be late."

Ruffling her hair with her fingertips, she slid out of bed. "Why?"

"I'd prefer it if we were punctual," he said, his voice a bit grim. "They'll like you better that way."

She felt unaccountably nervous. "You're sure they'll like me at all?"

He shrugged. "Only one way to find out. Get dressed." He left the room.

She scrambled into her clothes, straightened her tie about a dozen times, and tied down her hair in a ruffled sort of way; the French braid was coming apart at the seams, but still pretty. Hurriedly, she scrawled a note to Harry and Ron.

_We're talking again. He called me Hermione._

Crookshanks bounded out of sight with the note. Judging by the muffled curse downstairs, he had barely missed Draco on his way out the portrait-hole. Slipping into her shoes, she picked up her bag full of schoolbooks along with her cloak and strode quickly down the stairs, trying not to look anxious.

He was waiting, his expression brooding as though the cat had fouled his temper. He shook his head as he approached her. "No. This won't do." With surprisingly skilled hands, he loosened her tie so that the knot was less crisp, but then smoothed the creases out of the shoulders of her white collared shirt as though the edges there were important. "Don't look like you're trying so hard," he told her. "Very important to fit in for even the shortest amount of time with them." His hands went to her waist. She suppressed a flinch. He un-tucked her shirt. The fabric clung to her thin waist and disguised the line of her skirt, no longer bunched up around her hips. "You have a nice form, you know, if you'd show it off once in a while," he muttered, and though his eyes weren't looking at hers, she found herself staring at him. It was not just a small step from the Draco Malfoy she knew, it was a giant leap, and it was utterly terrifying. He straightened, his head lifting to meet her gaze, hands still near her hips. "And no cloak," he added.

She felt breathless, speechless. Was it his proximity that was making her head spin, or was that just fear? He still hadn't let go of her, and his eyes were staring down into hers, as though looking for something.

Her head cleared the instant he stepped away. She draped her cloak over her bag. He nodded in approval. "Let's go."

There were whispers as they entered the Great Hall, whispers and teachers sitting at the edges of their seats and people talking behind their hands. "Head high, but don't make eye contact with anyone, not yet," he murmured, in an undertone, and she followed his lead, feeling as though she were being led to her death. To her _execution_, more like.

"Morning, Draco."

The handsome, dark-skinned Blaise Zabini had glanced up. His eyes barely flickered to Hermione. At Draco's nod, she took her seat before he did. They sat directly across from Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. Crabbe and Goyle were lurking nearby, eating large mouthfuls of food. "Granger," Zabini added coolly. "Nice of you to join us. You look fit this morning."

She nodded, but didn't attempt a smile, since he didn't wear one, either. Draco was chuckling under his breath, and helping himself to crepes lathered in nutella and bananas. "Have a few, they're good," he told her, tilting some onto her plate. She thought she wouldn't be able to eat a bite at that moment, due to the tightness in her chest. "Stop looking so stiff, relax," he muttered in an undertone that Zabini and Parkinson, who were watching Crabbe and Goyle in disgust, did not hear. "You're safe."

She nodded again, and forced herself to pick up her fork. Zabini spied what had been pushed onto her plate. "Good choice. They're very fine. Does she talk?" he added casually to Draco, "or have you muted her?"

"I talk," she said aloud, a bit firmer than she'd intended, and Zabini sneered.

"What a surprise—"

"Blaise," Draco warned. "Granger is our guest. Play nice."

His mouth shut and his eyes narrowed, but he did not challenge Draco's words. Pansy Parkinson leaned forward, a simpering sneer on her face. Hermione repressed the revolted look that she felt stirring on her features. "How many subjects are you taking this year, Hermione, about seventeen?"

The table roared. Hermione felt her cheeks darken only slightly. "No," she said, lightly, "only eleven."

"How many O.W.L.s did you get, again?" Zabini asked in an offhand way, as though the answer didn't matter.

"Eleven." She resisted the temptation to add, "Obviously."

Draco was obviously enjoying himself, digging into his food in a somewhat ravenous way. "She's a bloody genius," Zabini muttered towards the youngest Malfoy, and he shrugged, not bothering to answer, savouring his breakfast. "How do you turn out like that, being Muggle-born?"

"You work a hell of a lot harder to fit in and seem like a wizard, that's how," Hermione said tartly, for the first time feeling hungry enough to cut out a bite of her crepes and lift the fork to her mouth. "Obviously."

Parkinson and Zabini just stared at her for a moment as she looked down and began eating her food. Beneath the table, Draco's fingertips brushed her knee. _Good one, _he seemed to be saying; it was as though she could hear him. _Defend yourself._

"You should've been in Ravenclaw," Parkinson said, before finally reaching for food. Zabini did the same.

"The Sorting Hat thought about it. But then, it changed its mind."

Zabini's slanting eyes narrowed. "I wonder why."

"Undoubtedly because I'm a bit more likely to take risks than the average Ravenclaw," she said dryly, gesturing down the table as though to incorporate her actions into her statement.

Parkinson snickered, Zabini's lip twitched in something like a pained grimace, and they continued eating their breakfast in relative peace, Hermione's fear and terror subsiding. From the corner of her eye, she saw Draco watching her, a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth, his brilliantly blond hair carefully tousled, silver eyes on her, filled with an oddly cheerful sort of congratulations.


	10. truth and fury

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TEN

_truth and fury_

"One moment, Miss Granger."

Hermione held back, puzzled, as Harry and Ron and the rest of the Transfiguration class was freed for the period. They gave her a sympathetic look and headed out, promising to save her a seat in the Great Hall for lunch.

She approached McGonagall's desk cautiously. "Yes, Professor?"

"We can't help but be concerned." The stern witch looked over her spectacles at the young Head Girl, calculating but worried. "You and Mr. Malfoy seem to repeatedly be appearing together, more and more often. At meals, in classes, in corridors occasionally, even. It's very unusual..."

"You wanted this to be a success."

"Wanted, but expected? I think not, Miss Granger. You should know...last year, Draco Malfoy became a..."

"Death Eater. Yes, I know, Professor."

Minerva McGonagall stared, hard, at Hermione, who looked pale but determined and not at all frightened. "I know I'm not supposed to know, but Harry, Ron and I had our suspicions last year," she continued. "And, well, I saw his mark, first week of term. And he told me about it."

McGonagall nodded very slowly. "And you are...fine, are you, with this development?"

"I was terrified, at first. Hardly slept. But if he meant harm...and at this point, Voldemort gone...why would he have any motivation to harm me?"

McGonagall sighed and stood up, her robes rustling around her in a menacing sort of way. "Do you know what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named asked Draco Malfoy to do last year, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Professor?"

The old woman began gathering papers. "I suggest that, at some point, you discuss the matter with him. For the sake of your own knowledge."

Hermione, recognizing the dismissal, left the room, her head filled with puzzled, confused thoughts.

…

"What did McGonagall want today?"

Hermione froze, one foot on the stairway up to her room. She had finished her homework, it was one in the morning, and she'd quite like to sleep, but Draco had seen her get up, and his eyes were watching her as she turned slowly to face him. She forced herself to keep her hands still. "Oh, well. She just...wanted to warn me."

"Warn you? About what?"

His smile was mocking. He already knew. Bollocks.

"About...you being a Death Eater."

"Oh, that was it?" He scoffed, rustling the Evening Prophet as he turned a page.

"That wasn't it."

He reappeared over the top of the paper, getting to his feet. His face wore a deep frown. "What else?"

"The Dark Lord gave you a mission."

She'd gotten into the habit of saying "Dark Lord" rather than "Voldemort" around Draco, just to save his blood pressure. This time didn't appear to do the trick, however. The colour went out of his face. "Did she tell you what it was?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes on his. He approached her, his stride careful. "Do you actually want to know?" he asked. His voice was quiet, as though she were a rabbit he didn't wish to startle.

"Well, yes. Just out of curiosity. I'm sure it wasn't anything important..."

"He ordered me to kill Dumbledore."

She backed into the wall. "Wha...What?"

"He told me he'd kill my whole family if I didn't. If I failed." He continued to close the distance between them, and grabbed her wrist when he was within a foot of her. "Drop the wand. I'm not going to hurt you." Her fingers were clenched around the strip of wood, knuckles very white. With an effort, she let it go. It clattered to the floor. He dropped his, as well, and it rolled away on the carpet. "There," he said, forcefully. "Not so difficult."

"How could he expect you to _manage _it?" she whispered, mortified. "Not even..._he _couldn't even kill Dumbledore."

Draco flinched. "It was punishment, for my father's mistakes. He expected me to die trying."

She gazed up into his face, scared and awed. His silver-blue eyes looked back at her, calm, not a flicker of fear behind them. "And...and you would have done it?" she whispered.

"I would have provided the means, but faced with the task, I may have found it impossible," he said, his voice quiet. His hand was still wrapped around her wrist, as though to keep her still.

"He's dying anyway."

He blinked, staring down at her. "What?"

"Dumbledore. He's dying. The curse on his hand, it's going to spread. There's no stopping it."

He stared down at her. "He didn't know."

"Apparently not," she whispered. "Dark Lord or not, Dumbledore is going to die."

His hand had loosened on her wrist, but she could still feel his pulse, bounding wildly, close to her skin.

"All he had to do was wait," Draco breathed. His breath flitted across her face. She very nearly closed her eyes. Her heart felt as though it were swelling inside her chest. _It's just the proximity, _she told herself frantically. _It's just giving you delusions. Delusions you wouldn't entertain, except for that he's touching you._

"This is infuriating. Absolutely infuriating." He ripped away from her so fast and was across the room so quickly that she blinked, uncertain as to whether they'd been so close in the first place. "Unbelievable!" he shouted. "I risk my neck for something that doesn't even need to be done, he threatens my family for no reason other than his own...his own...his own sick _enjoyment, _and the old man's going to die anyway, what was the point, what was the PURPOSE?"

The last word tore from his throat as though it were being ripped from him; he aimed a kick at the side table but Hermione got in the way quickly enough, and nothing toppled over. His foot barely grazed her leg. "What?" he snarled, glaring down at her frightened features, "what do you expect me to do? Be pleased? No point in him dying now, is there, it's not going to save my neck if the Dark Lord comes back from the dead again, it's not going to help my family!"

"There are other people who can help your family," she whispered. "Please, Draco, calm down."

The sound of his first name seemed to deflate his rage; his shoulders slumped, and his grey eyes looked away from her, towards the scuff marks on the hardwood floor from his frenzied dash across the room. "You call me 'Draco' now," he muttered, his hand lifting to press to his temples, as though a headache were building there.

"You...called me Hermione."

His head snapped up again, and he stared at her. "I...when? Did I?"

She nodded stiffly. "The other night. When you were demanding to know why I was showering at two in the morning." She shook her head. "Does it matter?"

He seemed to hesitate on the point of speaking, his grey-blue eyes searching her brown ones. For a long moment, they looked at one another, until her hand flitted up to touch his shoulder, a calming gesture as light as a butterfly's wings. He didn't pull back from her touch. Instead, his hand lifted, and, his eyes still on hers, his fingers brushed over her skin, pulling her hand into his own. There was silence as their fingers intertwined, the two still looking at one another, appalled, surprised, disoriented.

"You're right," he answered, finally. "It doesn't."

At the same moment, they both glanced down to see the strange reality that was materializing: his hand cradling hers, as though to protect it. She looked back up at him, and her eyes suddenly welled with tears.

"Don't," he murmured, "don't cry – "

But it was too late; her free hand lifted to brush the droplets away as they fell, darkening her lashes, streaking down her cheeks, silent, glittering, glistening. "They can protect you," she whispered, staring beseechingly at him even as the tears continued to gather and fall. "Please, please, just go to Dumbledore. Ask him for help. You don't have to be a Death Eater. If he comes back..." she trailed off, wondering why she cared.

"Alright," he muttered, his voice sulky but soothing, as though trying to calm her. "Alright. I dunno why you're so worried, anyway. It wouldn't kill you if I was dead."

"Don't say that," she snapped, her voice harsh, made even rougher by her tears. "I don't wish you killed, you insufferable little—"

"Hermione. Please. Spare me the hysterics." His hand slid along her neck, fingers threading through her hair, palm splayed against the back of her head, and he pulled her against his shoulder, pressing so lightly that she could have imagined the embrace, but the hand that had been holding hers was now against the small of her back, holding her in a momentary, fleeting gesture of comfort. "Why you care, I've no idea," he murmured, releasing her before she even had time to return the embrace. "But I'll talk to him. Satisfied?"

She blinked, and he was gone, whirling up the stairs to his room, the Evening Prophet he had been reading left discarded on the couch. She picked it up and glanced through it, not seeing the print or the images until one in particular caught her eye. It was a picture of Lucius Malfoy, typically sleek hair dishevelled, cloak and robes ragged, prison black-and-white. He had been called before the Wizengamot to answer to the charges of accused Death Eater, and by the sounds of the article, he was no longer denying the accusations.

She glanced up the stairway. Draco was banging about in his room, as though in a still-foul temper. With a heavy sigh, she fed the paper into the flames, and made her own way up to bed.


	11. you can be utterly dense

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

ELEVEN

_you can be utterly dense_

"Drat. It's too flipping dark in this castle."

"Draco, shush. I hear something."

"Yeah, you're always bloody hearing something..."

"Shush! _Nox._" The last word was said in tandem, Draco's wand giving a little sarcastic flip as the light on the end went out. In the now-almost-total-darkness, the Head Boy and Girl glared at each other before glancing around the corner. There was a snuffling sound down toward the end of the corridor.

"_Told you._" Hermione's voice was triumphant.

It was October, and the castle was getting colder and draftier by the minute. Tonight, they were wearing heavy sweaters and jeans to patrol the corridors, but Hermione was already regretting having left her cloak in the common room. It was freezing, and the lack of daylight seemed to make the cold even more piercing. There wasn't much difficulty about the patrolling business, except for when they encountered a violent student or Peeves, and it was usually neither of these things. Too often, after sundown, the castle was exceptionally empty. They ran across the teachers who were also on duty, but only occasionally. Each pair usually took a floor, and had the means to contact a more skilled wizard if the needs arose. It hadn't, yet. The danger that had been so affluent in Voldemort's return seemed to have lulled itself to an uneasy sleep, and peace reigned.

Except for when they heard noises down corridors. Usually, this boded ill.

"You get a sadistic sort of pleasure out of catching people snogging, you know," Draco told Hermione, his wand still out as they moved quietly down the corridor. "As if you're jealous of everyone who gets to do it, or something."

"No offence taken, Malfoy, since the last person I snogged was considerably more good-looking than Pansy Parkinson," Hermione hissed back, her eyes sweeping the end of the corridor. They were creeping forward, but the noise appeared to have stopped.

"Oh, _really_," he sighed; grey-blue eyes rolled. "Viktor Krum wasn't that good-looking."

She cast him an amused look. "Viktor wasn't the last person I snogged."

He gave her a perplexed look. "Really?"

"Really," she answered, with a roll of her eyes.

"Who was it, then? And please don't tell me it was the ginger menace, because I don't think I could bear the image."

She blushed furiously. "No, it was _not _Ron. It was Cormac McLaggen."

His mouth popped open slightly. "_What_?"

"Oh, shut up. You act like I'm not worthy or something." She shuddered. "It wasn't pleasant. But he is good-looking, of course. And so was Viktor, for that matter," she added with a glare.

He had recovered from his surprise. "No, he wasn't. Neither of them were. I'm _far _better looking than either of them. And Krum's just famous."

She _tsk_ed and turned to eye the corridor again. The noises had faded, undoubtedly warned by their bickering. "Yes, well, disregarding your looks, Draco…"

"What?" he demanded, stopping dead in the corridor to stare at her. "You don't think I'm good-looking?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I cannot even believe we're having this conversation." She turned back to gaze down the corridor, searching for what was no longer there.

He reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist. "I'm dead serious. How can you _not _think I'm good-looking? _Everyone _does." He looked worried. "Is it the hair? Should I start slicking it back again?"

She giggled. "No. It looked dreadful that way."

"Then what?"

"I never said I didn't think you were."

"You didn't say you did, either."

"Oh, honestly. You're being ridiculous. If I asked whether or not you thought I was good-looking you'd tell me no."

His brow furrowed. "Well, I mean...it's hard to think of you in that way. But you're pretty enough. I told you, you have a nice form, you just don't show it off."

She scoffed. "What a compliment. I _really _don't feel like returning the favour. 'Pretty enough...'" she muttered under her breath, pulling her hand away from his.

"Come on." He looked undeniably anxious. "You're pushing it. We're on a first-name basis but it's still hard to think of you as a girl."

She gave him an outraged look and stomped off down the corridor. "Go patrol by yourself, will you?" she flung over her shoulder, lighting her wand again. "You're being absolutely strange tonight, I don't know what it is..."

"Hermione!"

"Ron?" she called, puzzled, pointing the light in the direction that his voice had come from.

He appeared in a dazzling tangle of limbs and catching breath. "Hello," he said, grinning at her. "Heard you were patrolling the third floor tonight, thought I'd come visit for a second, Luna's got it under control..."

"You left _Luna_ on her own?" Hermione groaned. "Ronald, honestly, not one of your more brilliant ideas."

"Oh, come on. You're pleased to see me."

She sighed and closed the distance between them to give her best friend a hug, her arms draping around his neck to pull him close. There was the sound of a throat clearing behind her. Ron let her go and stared into the light approaching. "Weasley," Draco's voice said, and it seemed to have returned to its formerly cold, bitter state. "Aren't you supposed to be fifth floor tonight?"

"Just saying hello to Hermione," he replied, throwing her a shifty grin that she didn't quite return. There was a very ugly look in Draco's eyes that made her distinctly nervous. Ron didn't seem to notice. "But, you're right, it's probably bad to leave Luna on her own for too long...I'll see you at breakfast, all right?" he told Hermione, and she nodded, managing a smile. He loped off, wand raised, light shining into the night.

"Our shift's nearly over," she said, her voice unusually high under the strain of the tension in the air. The look hadn't faded in the slightest from Draco's face; he stared after Ron with a hard, impassive countenance. "Honestly," she snapped, reaching for his wrist to lower his wand, "what's gotten into you? The look on your face, I'm surprised Ron's not dead."

"He's in love with you."

The bald statement made her frown up into his eyes. He wouldn't meet her gaze. "No, he isn't. And even if he was, what's it to you?"

"Shifty character. He can be a bit cruel."

She let out a shout of laughter. "Pot calling the kettle black, aren't you?"

"I'm fairly nice to you," he told her. "But you two are rowing all the time. Really. Entire months spent not talking over some weird little thing. What kind of friendship is that?"

"A weird one, but we all have those," she said, firmly. "And you weren't exactly nice until recently. You're still not exactly nice. Just...less mean." She flicked her hair over her shoulder. His nose wrinkled, his nostrils flared; it was as though he were inhaling the scent of her shampoo, and she flushed at the thought. "Why are you so interested all of a sudden?" she asked, eyebrows knitting together in an attempt to disregard the look that briefly possessed his features.

He seemed to hesitate, his grey eyes finally meeting hers, and said firmly, "You can be utterly dense. You're beautiful. If you think Ron Weasley is the only one clever enough to see it, you've got another thing coming. You could do better than him. You dated an _internationally famous Quidditch player._" He snorted. "There must be a hundred boys in this castle who are queuing up for you to notice them. It wasn't just Krum's eye you caught fourth year."

She was so stunned that she let go of his hand, and his wandlight extinguished, pitching them into darkness once again. Her loss of concentration had ended her spell, too. "Don't look so surprised," his voice said out of the murky blackness. "Your blood status has nothing to do with how pretty you are." There was a rustle as he checked his watch. "Two AM. We're done for the night."

"Evening, Draco."

Pansy Parkinson and a sixth-year Slytherin Hermione didn't yet know materialized out of the darkness. "We're relieving you. I daresay you could use some sleep," the boy said.

"Why is it _dark_?" Parkinson questioned, shining her wandlight down the corridor.

"Thought we heard something," Draco said, shortly. "Have a good night."

As Draco moved off down the corridor, Hermione hurried along at his side, puzzled and confused. It was a long climb to their seventh-floor dormitory. "I have a question," she announced, as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Fire away." His tone was rather sarcastic.

"Are we friends?"

He stopped in his tracks again and stared at her. "It is too bloody late at night for this."

"I was just wondering," she persisted. "You know, since we've been on a first-name basis for about a month and seem to be getting along, that's usually the time when you become friends with a person. But with you, it's difficult to just _know_, so I figured I'd ask. To avoid any confusion."

The amusement on his face was unbearable. She wanted to slap it off. "Have Gryffindors and Slytherins ever been friends?" he asked her.

"Gryffindor and Slytherin themselves were the best of friends," she reminded him, "before all the blood status nonsense came between them."

His expression was now unreadable as he looked at her. "Do you _want _to be friends with me? After the way I've treated you and Potter and Weasley? Knowing that I'm a Death Eater, and that I would have killed Dumbledore to save myself and my family? Do you really want someone like that knowing you at all well?"

"The war is over, for now." Her voice was firm. "And I believe you feel remorse, regret, for what you were forced to do."

There was a momentary pause, and then he spoke again, his tone casual. "What's your middle name?"

"Huh?"

"If we're going to be friends, I need to know a few fundamental things about you, since my knowledge thus far is severely lacking." His voice was both defeated and exasperated.

"Jean."

"Abraxas."

"_What_?"

"My middle name. Abraxas."

She rolled her eyes. "Interesting. Draco Abraxas Malfoy."

"My grandfather's name." He waved it off. "Birthday?"

"September 19th, 1979."

"Damn. Missed it. Could've played an excellent prank on you for that one."

"There's always Christmas," she said, sarcastically. "When's yours?"

"June 5th, 1980."

They moved on up the stairs, talking, comparing, asking questions and giving answers, wondering little insignificant details about the other's life and upbringing. Many things didn't make sense to either. It seemed, however, that progress was being made.


	12. slytherins made jealous

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWELVE

_slytherins made jealous_

"Hogsmeade's this weekend."

"Yes. It's wearing a bit on me, actually. I've been too many times."

"You can _never _go to Hogsmeade too many times." Draco gave her a startled look. "It's brilliant, right, I love Honeydukes. They've got excellent candy." He seemed genuinely pleased at the prospect.

"You're the _last _person I would expect to enjoy Honeydukes!" she laughed, looking up from an Ancient Runes paper she was studiously completing, despite the fact that it was Friday night.

They were sitting in the common room by a merrily crackling fire; the Hogsmeade trip was tomorrow, on Halloween, and Hermione was primarily looking forward to the feast, both nervous and excited about it. After a few weeks of wheedling, she had convinced Parkinson and Zabini to join her and Draco at the Gryffindor table for the entirety of that evening, even through desert. Their agreement had her feeling lighter and happier than ever, because if there was anything that showed off the elusive House unity, a group of Slytherins joining the Gryffindors for a Halloween feast had to be it.

"You're not going, then?" He sounded disappointed.

"Well, I..." She glanced sideways at him. He was looking sulky, a sure-fire indication that something wasn't going his way. For once, though, she was puzzled as to _why._ "I wasn't...I wasn't planning on it, exactly. Harry and Ron have got Quidditch practice, so I wouldn't technically have anyone to...to go with..." She trailed off. He was looking mutinous. She wondered why.

They were "friends" in every awkward, bumbling, mistake-ridden sense of the word. Between trying to forget the past and trying not to lose their tempers with one another in the present, it was hard to constantly maintain a friendly atmosphere. As such, the time they spent together was limited—meals, once or twice a week, classes, a few times a week as well, the common room in silence doing homework, on patrol duty every so often, meeting with the prefects once in a while. They were always surrounded by others when they were together, and there was some relief in this, as it was unlikely that he would hex her with crowds of people around. And when they were alone, well, there was this strained sort of tension between them, as though they both had fireworks perpetually ticking towards explosion and neither was in good enough control to subdue it.

"_I _don't have Quidditch practice tomorrow," he pointed out, raising his eyebrows.

She very nearly gaped at him.

"You want me to...to go with...you?"

He looked uncharacteristically wounded. "Well, if you can't stand being around me, I won't force you to."

"No!" she said quickly, "It's not that at all! I just had no idea you'd want to. Of course, we can go. It would be...fun...right?"

"You sound unsure," he grouched, a loathing tone in his voice as he rustled pages of a textbook. "You don't have to. It was a stupid idea."

"Oh, stop. I want to. But why aren't you going with the Slytherins? Parkinson and Zabini? Crabbe or Goyle?" She felt utterly flummoxed.

"Well," he said, staring determinedly over her shoulder at the wall behind her, "I would, but Crabbe and Goyle have got detention, and...well...Blaise and Pansy are going...together."

She _did _gape at him this time. "Like...a date?"

"Yes, _like a date._" His voice reflected the mutinous look that had been present on his face only moments before. "So I wouldn't exactly be welcome."

"But..." Her mind reeled with this bit of information. What a strange development. She had always been under the impression that Pansy Parkinson fancied no one but Draco Malfoy, and it was odd that she would move on to Blaise Zabini. The girl usually clung to him like...like...a cloak, or something. "I thought...you and Parkinson had a kind of...thing," she finished, lamely.

He shrugged. "We used to. Not so much any more. She's at perfect liberty to date who she pleases."

She watched him with furrowed eyebrows. "You're not...upset?"

"No."

The word was shaper than she had expected, and she flinched as though ducking a blow. He sighed. "Well, maybe a little, but not terribly. I never paid her much attention, so it's not like she could be expected to hang round forever."

"Oh," Hermione said, feeling rather taken aback still. "Well, er...I'm sorry?"

He laughed at the befuddled look on her face. "Honestly. It's nothing. But if we run into them, well...let's veer the other way, alright?"

"Sure," she agreed, pushing a hand through her hair. "Well, I think I'll go to bed. If we're going to be off early tomorrow, anyway."

"See you in the morning," he said, going back to his homework. She darted up the stairs, shutting the door behind her, and immediately began digging through her closet, looking for something that would be suitable to wear for the next day. Her stomach fluttered with nervous butterflies. She hardly slept that night.

…

It was with a mingled feeling of dread and exasperation that Draco checked his watch for what felt like the eighteenth time. It wasn't nine o'clock yet, but it was getting damn near, and the Head Girl was still up in her room, making loads of noise and not appearing to make any progress. "It's not like you have to be perfect, you know!" he shouted up the stairs. "It's just Hogsmeade!"

She gave a muffled reply that he couldn't make out. He shrugged and went back to his pacing. Hopefully she'd emerge soon, or they'd be late, and he _hated _being late. It was just given that you were supposed to turn up in the Entrance Hall around nine o'clock to get past Filch and head to the village. And Draco really wanted them to be _seen. _That was the point of all this, really, though he was sort of looking forward to the trip, as well. She was starting to grow on him.

He was wearing a jacket, since the cold outside lacked its bite today, and plain, Muggle attire for once – comfortable, dark blue jeans and a thick white sweater. His hair was dishevelled, but in a careful sort of way, and for once, Draco Malfoy looked somewhat relaxed, except for the anxious glances he kept shooting the stairway to the right of the common room, where the noises had died down upstairs. "Honestly, Hermione," he grumped, stomping toward the stairway, "if you don't bloody hurry up—!"

He stopped dead.

She had just tumbled down the stairs, appearing slightly breathless, her cheeks pink from running around and hurrying to get ready. Her honey-brown hair was a tumble of mismatched curls, spilling from a loose ponytail high on her head; lips pink, eyelashes dark, eyes glittering with warmth. She, too, was wearing jeans and a sweater, but they fit her form more closely than any school uniform ever had, and her feet were small and cute in trainers. There was a shy smile on her face—her teeth straight, small, and white, thanks to that curse gone awry in their fourth year—and she looked nervous, but pleased. Her jacket was draped over her arm, mittens already on her hands, a small bag slung over her shoulder.

"Sorry," she said, in a rushed voice. "I just...the beast on top of my head, seriously, it's hard to tame."

He jerked his head towards the portrait, having to rip his eyes away from her, because suddenly, Hermione Granger looked less like a Mudblood than ever, and he was wondering how he had missed this attractive, talented witch for what she was all these years. "Let's just go. We're still on time. You look...nice." The word must have been the biggest underestimation he'd ever uttered in his life.

"Thanks. So do you. I don't think I've ever seen you wear Muggle clothing before."

He shrugged. "My parents frown on it, but there are times when it's appropriate."

They walked in a companionable sort of silence down the stairs to the Great Hall, where students were trickling by Filch on their way out to Hogsmeade. Draco and Hermione joined the throng of people. Most gave them a wide berth; several whispered behind their hands; for their part, they ignored the onlookers. Hermione pulled on her jacket as they left the castle and started walking towards the village.

"So are we making a dash straight for Honeydukes, to beat the crowd?" she asked, her voice genuinely teasing.

He glanced sideways at her. She was smiling, and appeared cheerful. "You know, it's weird seeing you pleased."

She looked taken aback. "Why?"

"Because you're never pleased around me, are you? You always look like someone's just died or something. It's...good, this side of you." She looked even more pleased at that. "I was thinking we'd stop in Scrivenshaft's first."

Her face lit up. "Excellent idea. I do need a new quill. And some parchment, perhaps..."

"Wasn't that one of the things Amortentia smelled like to you?"

She blushed furiously. "Why on earth would you remember that?"

He grinned. It wasn't a sneer or a smirk, but a genuine, full grin. "I just thought it was absurd. New parchment, honestly..."

The red in her face was endearing. "Well, remember _that_, third year?" she asked slyly, pointing out the Shrieking Shack as they passed it from a distance.

He pulled a face. "Don't remind me. Potter and his invisibility cloak. What a nightmare."

She giggled. "It was utterly brilliant." Then she stopped, and looked suspiciously sideways at him. "How did you know...?"

"He hid in my compartment last year, didn't he, wearing it? The prat. So when I cursed him and he fell out of the luggage rack I realized how he'd been doing all that rubbish all those years." Draco shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "I had my suspicions before that, but it was really confirmed then."

"I told him it was a bad idea. Spying on you." Her voice was low, and there was a strained sound to it, as though she hadn't agreed with their interactions on either side.

"Well, you were right, weren't you?"

They turned into Scrivenshaft's, a shop that held so many manners of quills it was almost revolting, and began to browse among the shelves. It was a few moments before either of them spoke again.

"Did you need something here?" Hermione questioned him, frowning at one of the more vibrant of quills, which was writing all on its own on a blank piece of parchment.

"Well, yes. Why else would I suggest it?" He made a scoffing noise.

"Just thought you should know. Pansy and Blaise are coming our way."

He swore violently under his breath and turned, ready to get out before they were spotted; Hermione turned with him, about to follow him from the shop, but they found themselves face-to-face with Pansy and Blaise, who were holding hands. She saw Draco's jaw tighten, but other than that, the strain this put on him wasn't visible.

"What a coincidence. Didn't think we'd run into you here, Draco." Blaise Zabini's voice was a drawl. Hermione felt a stab of anger. Surely he knew that this irritated Draco, even the slightest bit?

"Hermione was looking for a new quill," the Head Boy replied, with a forced sort of polite smile.

"Hermione...?" Parkinson's smirk was suddenly deflating, as she looked round with a frown at the small girl standing just behind and to the side of Draco. Hermione took a slight step forward, putting herself a little closer to Draco's side, because the look that Blaise was giving them both was a very ugly one indeed.

"You came with Granger?" he demanded of Draco.

_Read my mind, read my mind, read my mind, _her thoughts practically sang as he glanced down at her, and as she felt him looking through her head, she thought as hard as she could, _make her jealous, make her jealous, make her jealous..._

"Oh, didn't you know?" Draco said lightly, as his arm snaked out and caught Hermione around the waist, pulling her to his side. She practically snickered, but managed to hold it to a small smile. "Yeah, we came together." He gave a delicate cough of laughter. "Don't look so surprised, Blaise, I'd heard you were placing bets on how long it would be...House unity, and all, right? It sets a good example."

The tall black boy was looking furious, Pansy Parkinson on the verge of tears. They were no longer holding hands. "I was merely thinking of what your father would say," Blaise said shortly. "Being friendly when you must—no offence, Granger," he cordially nodded his head to her, and she barely returned the gesture, "is acceptable, but going beyond what's necessary, acting like this..."

"My father's in Azkaban, and he's not getting out any time soon," Draco replied, his voice lazy. "In the meantime, I'm off to enjoy a day with the prettiest girl in our year. Don't pretend you're not jealous, Blaise!" He laughed again. "Excuse us, won't you, I need a new quill as well..."

His arm lifted to drape over her shoulders and, automatically, hers went around his waist as they turned back towards the wall of the shop. In the window's reflection, Hermione watched Pansy rush from the shop, Blaise following shortly after her, looking particularly sour. She breathed a sigh of relief. "I was sure they were going to curse us."

"You're fucking _brilliant_, Hermione." He smirked down at her. "Of course, they're going to spread it all over the school, we're going to be utterly defamed, but it was brilliant in the moment, wasn't it? Did you see their faces?"

She let out a reluctant giggle. "I suppose, yes. But what will they _say_?"

He shrugged. His arm was still around her shoulders. "Who cares?"

"Your father."

"In Azkaban."

"Did you mean it?"

"What?"

"About me being the prettiest girl in the year?"

"Well, I think you are, at the moment." He turned her towards the rows upon rows of quills. "New parchment and quills to your heart's desire. I'll buy you whatever you like."

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly..."

"You could," he said, firmly, giving her a gentle push towards the rows. "Honestly. That's the first real laugh I've had in ages. Get what you like." He strolled off down a row on his own, hands in his pockets, humming merrily under his breath. Stifling a laugh, Hermione began to pick up and examine quills, her face still a bit pink from the compliment he'd paid her.

They left the shop some fifteen minutes later laden with new parchment and a black-and-gold pheasant feather quill for each of them. They didn't meet anyone else on their way to Honeydukes, but once inside, there was no avoiding the throng of Hogwarts students. None seemed interested enough to notice them; there was a sale on the owners' best fudge, and a scramble to buy some. They browsed the shelves, each pointing out their favourite candies and chocolates, and by the time they left the shop, their packages had grown considerably. Hermione hadn't yet managed to pay for anything.

"Want to go for a drink? It's getting colder," Draco commented, gesturing towards The Three Broomsticks. A chilly wind had sprung up and was whistling along High Street. Hermione nodded, anxious to get back in the warm, and so they slipped through the door and into the chatter and talk of the cramped inn. He tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to a distant booth in the corner, and they wound their way through the talk and chatter towards it.

"What'll you have? I'll go get them. Butterbeer, mead, firewhisky?" He smirked at this last one, and she shook her head, laughing.

"Just a butterbeer."

He groaned. "How dull. I'll be back." He left their shopping with her at the table and vanished into the crowd, making his way toward the bar.

"Hermione!"

"Oh, hello, Ginny," she said, turning towards the voice as Ginny Weasley slid into the booth beside her. "I thought you all had Quidditch practice?"

"It's over, so I decided to come a bit late. Harry and Ron stayed back, though, something about Exploding Snap...but Luna wanted to come, so I thought I'd accompany her. She's getting drinks now. You're not here on your own?"

"No, er..." Hermione glanced toward the bar, where a blond head was just visible, leaning forward to order drinks from Madam Rosmerta. Ginny followed her gaze.

"You...you came with _Malfoy_?" She sounded more startled than angry.

"Well, you lot had Quidditch practice, what was I supposed to do? Come on my own?"

"I thought you weren't coming at all!"

"I wasn't, but...he asked me to."

Ginny stared. "He...asked you, to come with him? Like...a date? Doesn't he have Slytherin friends to hang round with?"

"Yes, but...well, Parkinson and Blaise came together, a date, you know, and Crabbe and Goyle had detention, so I suppose he thought I was the next logical choice. It's not...a date."

To Hermione's great surprise, Ginny wore an evil sort of smirk. "So the rumours I've been hearing have been true."

"What rumours?"

"Well, word has it that he's developed something of a soft spot for you."

Hermione swallowed. She wished she had something to do with her hands; she felt altogether too flushed around her neck and face, and was sure that she was blushing scarlet.

"Oh, don't look so anxious, Hermione, it's not so terrible, is it? I mean, he can be a horrible person, but he's obviously got a better side, hasn't he? He shows it around you. Oh, drat, he's coming back—I'll leave you two alone, I need to find Luna anyway—" And with that, Ginny slipped from the booth and took off through the crowd, vanishing quite effectively. Within seconds, Draco took her vacated spot.

"One dull butterbeer for you, one goblet of the finest oak-matured mead there is for me," he announced, sliding the foaming glass over to her and lifting his own. "I can't see why you'd come to The Three Broomsticks to drink _butterbeer_."

"It's a bit of a habit," she sighed, lifting her glass and taking a sip. The warmth of the liquid made her feel less anxious almost instantly. "You're rather _cheerful_, aren't you?"

He eyed her as he lifted his goblet to his mouth. "Yes. Aren't you? It's been a good day, hasn't it?"

She couldn't help it; his happiness was contagious. A smile hitched up the corner of her mouth as she took another drink, and though she didn't say a word, he knew that she agreed. "Thank you, by the way, for all the, er, parchment," she told him, setting her glass down.

"You're welcome." He reached out, his fingertip lightly wiping away a bit of the foam at the corner of her mouth. "Like I said, this has been the first real laugh I've had in a long time. It's not all fun and games, you know, trying to murder one of the most powerful wizards that ever was."

She lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. "I...I suppose it wouldn't be. But, I mean...how were you planning on even doing it?"

He stared into his goblet, eyes suddenly brooding. "I'm not sure, really. I had a plan, you know. There's...I'm sure you know about Vanishing Cabinets?"

"What about them?"

"They have a special function when there's two of them."

"Oh, right. When there's a pair, you can travel between them."

He watched her, waiting for the information to sink in. "Come on, Hermione," he murmured. "I know you three followed me, to the shop. Borgin told me later about a girl, a bushy-haired girl who came in and asked about what Draco Malfoy had been looking for..."

She frowned at him, but didn't comment on this. "He had a Vanishing Cabinet himself, in the shop, didn't he? And there was the one at school, the one that Peeves had smashed..."

"Yes. I was trying to fix it. I could have brought Death Eaters into the castle, no problem at all, but for the fact that they're damn near impossible to mend. And when the Dark Lord...well, I just didn't bother any more. No point, really. I was only doing it because...well, you know. He would have killed my family. It wasn't me so much I was worried about, at that point...I think, by the time Christmas came round, I'd have rather been dead than having to try and fix that dratted cabinet." He sighed. "But, really, enough about that. It was dull, it was hopeless, it was terrifying. What else is there to say? I'm glad he's gone. That's all."

His hand rested on the table beside his goblet, and without thinking about it, she reached out to cover it with her own. There was a hitched breath of surprise, and he glanced sideways at her before, with a sad sort of smile, pulling her hand underneath the table with his. They drank in silence as his fingers laced through hers.


	13. fallout

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

THIRTEEN

_fallout_

"Have you heard?"

"There they are now, look."

"Did you see that? You realize what it means?"

"_Malfoy and Granger..._"

"Merlin's beard. Can we just eat in the common room?" Hermione's jaw was clenched as they wandered into the Entrance Hall amidst a crowd of chattering students, a few of whom had apparently witnessed the scene in Scrivenshaft's or had heard about it from someone else. The Slytherins had been alerted first, but many students of other houses appeared to have overheard.

"It's kind of funny, isn't it? How upset they are over it?" Draco commented, ignoring this as he lifted a hand to touch her shoulder. There was a sort of gasp in the distance, near the doors to the Great Hall. "Like we're utterly impossible, or something...no, no, no, we can't go to the common room," he protested, as she made for the grand staircase in a huff. "Don't show weakness. We're going ahead as if nothing has happened." He grabbed her wrist. Another muffled noise of exclamation came from the crowd. A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "Relax, it'll be fun," he murmured, towing her towards the Great Hall. "And it was your idea, anyway."

"No!"

Her voice was low but vehement. He released her almost immediately. "What's gotten into you?" he demanded, staring at her. "This was your idea."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched away from him, toward their common room, where she supposed she could lock herself in her bedroom and cry for hours undisturbed. For being such a spectacular day, it was coming to a horrid end when she saw the hatred flashing on each and every face turning towards her. _Malfoy and Granger..._

Was it so taboo? Was it so disallowed, so inconceivable? She ducked her head to dash away the tears forming in her eyes as she climbed the stairs, ignoring all those around her now. What good would it do to face them? She was upset over the reactions of a mindless throng and what they were reacting to wasn't even _real_.

She very nearly sprinted along the seventh floor, choked out the password to the rustling flowers, and threw herself inside. She felt too miserable and weak, too hated and disliked, to even find the will to climb the stairs; instead, she collapsed on the couch, pulled the blanket draped across the back around her, and dissolved into tears. Her shopping was carelessly slumped against the floor beside her. The sound of her own echoing sobs flashed back at her, and she wondered why she was taking it so badly, the way they were all acting. _It shouldn't bother me,_ she told herself miserably, _but it does._

And what if it had actually been real? Would any couple from Slytherin and Gryffindor be treated like this? Would it always be an act of treason? "It wasn't even real," she choked aloud, tightening further into her ball of unhappiness.

"What?"

Her head lifted automatically, and gave a little shake at the sight that greeted her. "Harry? How did you get in here?"

"Malfoy. Told me the password. Said he didn't want to come up and bug you, but that he was...well, I don't know what he was, exactly. Maybe concerned is the right way to put 'not being an evil git'." Harry shrugged, and pointed at the couch beside her. "Mind if I sit down? Nice place you've got here."

She sniffed and nodded, scooting over to make room for him on the couch and pulling herself upright again. She made a brave attempt at wiping away the tears with her sleeve, but it did little good. "So have the rumours today been true?" Harry asked, a worried and slightly terrified look on his face. "You and...and Malfoy?"

"It was just a stupid prank," she whispered; the burning feeling in her sinuses wouldn't leave. Her voice sounded hoarse and weak. "He...he wanted me to go to Hogsmeade with him. Appearances, you know, and he couldn't go with the Slytherins—Crabbe and Goyle had—"

"Detention, yeah, what else is new," Harry finished, nodding. "But what about Parkinson and Zabini?"

"They went...together. A date." She sniffed and wiped at her eyes again. Harry tentatively put his arm around her shoulders and, gratefully, she leaned into him. "He was...upset, you know, him and Parkinson have always kind of had a..."

"...a thing, right," he agreed, with another nod.

"So...we ran into them in Scrivenshaft's...and...oh, Harry, it was my fault, I felt so protective all of a sudden, Zabini was being a complete git, and I...I wanted him to r-read my m-mind, so h-he did, and I told him to m-make...them...j-jealous...so we pretended we were...together..."

"Wait," he said, his tone alarmed, looking down at her. "He _read your mind_? He's accomplished Legilimency?"

"He's a Death Eater!" she wailed, burying her face in Harry's sweater. "Bellatrix Lestrange taught him, his aunt, you were right, Harry, I'm so sorry, but he never wanted to be—"

"Can you seriously believe that?" he demanded, infuriated. "Malfoy not wanting to be a Death Eater, that's utter rubbish—"

"He did, at first, I saw it," she cried, "but after he got in, after what they asked him to do, he didn't want to any more, he couldn't stand it, I know it sounds ridiculous, Harry, but he was only ever a bully, he wasn't a—a m-murderer—"

She dissolved in a wave of fresh tears. Harry, thankfully, subsided on his rant about Malfoy's intentions and squeezed her shoulders, as though to comfort her. "I can't believe you've managed to do this for two months," he said, in a low voice. "Living with him when you found out; you must have been terrified..."

She choked back another sob. "I was scared out of my wits, but...but we worked it out alright, we're getting along, just sometimes, I c-can't stand...the way he acts...he's so bloody confusing..."

"And you were always the one who understood emotions," Harry sighed, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Well, if it's any consolation, Ron's tearing the mickey out of him right now for...for whatever he did to you."

She shook her head, accepting the handkerchief. "He didn't really...I mean, look at all the things he bought me! Just for giving him a laugh, by tricking those two." She pushed the bag of shopping toward Harry. "It was just...we got back here, and everyone seemed to _know_, and they all _loathed _us...it was horrifying..."

"He..."

Harry seemed to be at a loss for words. He looked through the content of the bag with a wary sort of interest, pushing aside the parchment and picking out some of the fudge from Honeydukes. "You know, Hermione, I reckon he might have a bit of a thing for you," he commented in a very wary tone of voice.

"You and Ginny," she said flatly, "are both insane. He hasn't got a 'thing' for me. I'm a Mudblood, he's a Death Eater."

"You said yourself that he didn't really want to be, and this is basic proof," Harry said, frowning as he poked through the bag. "That's a rather expensive quill. I think he might like you."

"Preposterous," she muttered, wiping her eyes on the handkerchief.

He glanced at her sympathetically. "Well, I mean, it's all here, isn't it? The evidence. Even him being, well, not adverse to your little scheme to make the Slytherins jealous—did you say he _read your mind_?"

She nodded, miserably. "It's just...what occurred to me at the time."

"You've got to be careful with this. It's Malfoy. Don't do anything too absurd. He's still a Death Eater."

"He's said he's going to talk to Dumbledore. To get protection, for his family. So that he won't have to be part of Voldemort's inner circle if he ever comes back."

They stared at each other, Hermione's eyes red and puffy, Harry wearing a deep frown. "Well," he muttered, "it still wouldn't hurt to be careful, you know. Just in case."

She laughed shrilly. "It's not like I'm going to—to fall in love with him, or something absurd like that—"

"I should hope not. But that doesn't stop him from..."

"Yes. I understand."

They sat in a miserable sort of silence for a moment, and then there were footsteps outside the portrait-hole. Hermione sprang to her feet, grabbed her bag of shopping, and raced up the stairs, slamming the door behind her. When she got to the top of the little stairwell, she locked her bedroom door behind her, did the same to the bathroom door's lock, and shuffled miserably towards her closet, hoping to find something more comfortable to change into. She wanted nothing but to have a good, long sleep.

…

"She was just scared. She's not used to loads of people loathing her for something she didn't even do."

"Something she _didn't even do_? It was her idea!" Malfoy's voice was getting louder by the minute, but Harry didn't cringe back from him; he stood his ground in front of the door to Hermione's bedroom.

"Shut up. You don't want her to hear you. I know it was her idea. She told me. But you have to admit, she's been under a lot of stress." Malfoy growled. Harry's hand automatically twitched toward his wand in hope of defending himself. He couldn't help but hate the git, even now, when it was so clear that Hermione had a bit of a thing for him. But he didn't have to make this more difficult than it already was.

The Slytherin's jaw was clenched. "Just let me by. I want to see her." His words, strained and furious though they were, sounded at least genuine. "Maybe I can reassure her."

Harry stared at him blankly. "Reassure her? You think _you _can reassure her?"

Silver eyes met his green ones. "Give her some space," Harry advised, though Malfoy towered over him, seething. Were magic not a factor, he was certain that the Slytherin could have snapped him in two. "Let her mull it out in her own brain for a while. She's stubborn. You'd do nothing but inflict more damage right now."

His shoulders slumped, a little, and he took a step back. "I wasn't planning on hurting her," he said, in a voice that was at least quieter, if not with any less tension.

"I didn't mean hurting _her_. I meant you're just going to make things worse for yourself, if you try to go up there right now." Harry gestured behind him. The silver eyes narrowed. Harry shrugged. "She doesn't take kindly to people being bloody gits," he added quietly. "If you want to stay friends with her at all, wait. Ron used to spend months of every school year estranged from her because he couldn't help but speak up and always managed to say or do the wrong thing. She gets hurt really easily, you know."

Malfoy heaved an annoyed sigh and walked toward his desk, tipping his shopping out onto it. Sweets spilled onto the surface. Harry took a cautious step away from the staircase door. "I don't see why you're helping me," he said flatly, staring at it all as though not seeing it. "I'd have thought you'd think it was better off, if she stopped being friendly with me." He turned to face Harry again, who had made his way to the portrait-hole, and was about to leave.

Harry shrugged, itching to be out of Malfoy's company. "It would just hurt her more. She's one of my best friends. If you're what she wants, then...I'm not going to stop her. Though I think she'd be better off. Her choice. But if you hurt her, I _will _hex you six ways from Saturday."

Malfoy snickered, but the laughter didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry, Potter," he said, turning back to the desk with a brooding expression, "I wouldn't even think of it."


	14. safety

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

FOURTEEN

_safety_

It was sometime after one in the morning; of that, Hermione was sure. All the lights under her doors were out and the dormitory was silent, and that only ever happened when Draco was asleep, too. And _that _never happened until after one in the morning.

She rolled over onto her side, facing the bathroom door. Her blankets were tossed uncomfortably around her, not neatly stacked as they usually were. Her throat felt bare and itchy and her sinuses remembered some vague pain. There was a puddle of tissues on the floor, now that she could see it from this angle, and her eyes felt somehow swollen. The absence of Draco's usual snores in the air added to the uneasiness she was feeling at all of her symptoms. Then, as she heard the first creak in the floorboards, she remembered.

It was the middle of the night after the fated day that she had rashly decided to wreck havoc on everyone's emotions, and hers had fallen to the line of fire in the process. Even now, as she thought of it, a sob tore up from her chest, threatening to burst forth. Another creak in the floorboards sounded. If Draco wasn't snoring, he wasn't asleep, and by the sound of that creeping he was about to come in and scream at her for her stupidity. She tugged a pillow miserably over her head, hoping to block the worst that words could do to her.

There was a whispered spell, and her door swung open. Maybe she should have thought of using something stronger than a stupid lock before passing out.

"Go away," she muttered weakly from beneath her pillow.

"No," the voice answered, sounding all dimensions of amused as it crossed the room and sat down lightly at the end of her bed.

"I'm trying to sleep," she continued, wondering where her wand was. Wondering if she could hex him backward out the door and just keep him away forever. Her eyes welled up at the thought, and more angry tears rose in response to _those _tears. She hated feeling as though she'd be sad to not have Draco Malfoy around.

"And failing, by the sound of it." A hand lightly found its way to her shoulder, and tugged gently. "Come out of your cave. I've been waiting for you to wake up for ages."

She bristled. "What for?" she bit out. "So that you can tell me what an idiot I am? No worries, I've already ascertained that for myself, you can go back to sleep."

His hand, still tugging on her shoulder, paused. "You think I came in here at two in the morning to call you stupid? Couldn't that have waited for daylight, when I'm in the prime of insult-wielding fitness?"

She paused, and then muttered miserably, "I'd assumed you were so excited about it that you just couldn't contain yourself."

"Be serious. I've been rather good about not insulting you lately."

Finally, she rolled onto her back and scooted up against the headboard of her bed, letting the pillow drop into her lap. Her arms wrapped around it as she focused on her toenails. Anything to avoid looking him in the face and seeing all the amusement in his silver eyes. "Good," he said, in an uncharacteristically calm voice, and swung his legs up onto the bed too, facing her. She caught a glimpse of his green-and-silver silk pyjamas as his legs stretched out toward her. She tried to curl closer to herself, if at all possible. The words that Harry had spoken the night before came back at her with a vengeance: _I reckon he might have a bit of a thing for you._

She swallowed. Impossible. Draco Malfoy, _have a thing _for a Mudblood? Draco Malfoy the former _Death Eater_? She couldn't have grown on him that much. The thought of his arm snaking out around her waist, his lingered touch on her shoulder even when Zabini and Parkinson were out of sight, made her face darken with a blush. Ridiculous, that she was thinking of returning the feeling. If such a feeling _existed_, which was so unlikely that it wasn't even worth considering.

His voice jolted her from her reverie. "_What _was that all about last night?"

It was the confusion, and the frustration, that punctured his calm tone which caused her to look up, momentarily startled. His silver eyes were blazing with curiosity and, the moment they met hers, she reddened again. Her eyes dropped again, to the plain white t-shirt clinging to his sculpted chest. Not helping. Her eyes dropped back to his feet. "I was just...frustrated." She bit her lip. "That everyone around us seems to be even more ignorant than we are."

There was a pause. "That wasn't very clarifying."

The words caught in her throat. Tears built in her eyes again. _Stop it, don't cry_, she chanted at herself. A deep breath seemed to clear the urge. "I just...hated," she tried, her voice curiously dead, "that everyone seemed to think it was so impossible."

Another pause came from his end of the bed. And then a low chuckle of laughter.

Her head jerked up to glare at him, but his sudden proximity startled her. He had moved; he was sitting right beside her. His face was inches from hers, disconcertingly, dizzyingly close. She blinked, trying to regain her balance, which seemed to have gone even though she was still sitting. His expression was morose as his silver eyes looked into hers. "That's because it _is_, Hermione," he said, and the way he spoke, it was as though he was gently reminding her. "And you know that we're the last people they expect to _ever _break the mould. The only person more thoroughly Gryffindor than you is Harry Potter himself, and I can tell you for a fact that none of the other Slytherins have a legitimate Dark Mark on their forearms." His expression darkened further. "Separately, we exemplify all the traits that clash between our houses. Politeness was unlikely, friendship was violently improbable, and what we tried to depict in Hogsmeade _is impossible._"

Hermione's eyes dropped to the blankets again as she pulled her knees up to her chest, discarding the pillow. "Just say whatever you're getting at and go away," she murmured miserably, her tone thick with the tears welling up, yet again, in her eyes.

In the silence that followed, she could taste his surprise, clear as the sweetly bitter scent of his cologne on the air. "Am I hurting your feelings?" he asked, his tone stunned. "What did I say? I thought you would be relieved. You don't have to keep interacting with me anymore. Just pretend I don't exist. It'll be easier on everyone, particularly you."

"If that's what you want," she answered, her voice still deeply unhappy. "Now leave so I can get started right away."

He huffed, then reached out and jerked her chin up with his hand. His eyes stared into hers. "It's not what _I _want," he claimed, appearing annoyed that he was admitting it. "I thought it was becoming rather too clear what _I _want."

Her eyebrows furrowed, her gaze staring back into his. She had never taken a moment to admire the precise shade of silver-blue that his eyes were. Slowly, because her jaw was still held in place by his hand, she shook her head. "No," she said slowly. "You're just confusing me."

His eyebrows knitted together, too, as he stared at her, perplexed, those silver-blue eyes opening—becoming suddenly so vulnerable. "You don't know." The words were mingled with relief and unhappiness. "All that time I thought I was giving myself away. That you were looking right through me and seeing what I didn't even acknowledge myself. And _you don't know_."

Her heart was beating, she realized, so quickly in her chest that it was a steady thrum. Her breath hitched. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," he said, and as abruptly as those silvery-blue eyes had opened to her, they closed. "It's quite better that you don't know." He released her chin, and was abruptly standing. "It would be better, safer," he continued, his voice suddenly cold, "if we each went about our business with minimal contact. For both of us. We can stop making outrageous attempts to unite our houses; we don't need to speak if it isn't for the sake of being polite. The last two months have been a supreme waste of time and effort...we both know that this is altogether impossible." He was walking to the door, and only glanced back once. The look lingered, and she stared, aghast, as the door shut behind him.

It was strange and somewhat horrible that it felt as though he had taken a piece of her heart with him.

…

It was with very little anticipation that she went down to breakfast the next morning, taking a longer route than necessary to be sure she wouldn't run into Draco on the way downstairs. There was an empty place in her chest where something had been once, and she felt cold and tired without it. No one spared her a glance as she walked into the Great Hall; perhaps the scandal of yesterday was old news. There were worried whispers circulating. She frowned, and picked her head up to look for Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

They were sitting at their usual place along the Gryffindor table, all their faces unusually pale. "Ginny?" she said uncertainly as she approached. "Harry? Ron? What's happened?"

The look in Harry's eyes was unusually dead as his head lifted to gaze at her. "Dumbledore is dead," he said blankly, and she realized that if the world could crumble down on top of her, she would have preferred that to all of this.

…

It was not a surprise, Harry had continued tonelessly. The headmaster had been degenerating for months. It was a surprise that he had lasted past summer, but his year was up, and no, it wasn't a surprise that the curse in his hand had spread and taken him.

Hermione moved about in a fog. Harry was much worse off than she, but Ginny was better at the whole comforting bit. For a long week, Hermione only did the minimum of her homework; she gazed out the window of her bedroom most other times, curled into a ball in a comfortable armchair, blankets piled around her. She felt absent, detached—painfully alone. The funeral wasn't much better. It just made her abruptly start crying again, and coming back from it had been torture, since she'd had to walk in hiccupping silence beside the Head Boy. It was rotten luck that they were headed in the same direction. As promised, he spoke not a word to her, not even words of consolation about the funeral, and swept up to his own bedroom in silence.

She spent another week in the armchair, feeling horrible and foggy and lonely—the tears came almost inevitably—while the wind and the rain plagued Hogwarts. The empty place in her chest felt like it was being filled with concrete.


	15. lifting fog

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

FIFTEEN

_lifting fog_

"You don't look well, Hermione."

Harry and Ron were not yet down to breakfast, and Hermione struggled to throw the fog off enough to respond to the red-headed girl across from her at Gryffindor table. Ginny Weasley was eyeing her with acute concern. Hermione wondered how deep the shadows under her eyes were, or how absolutely ravaged her hair looked. Like every night of the past two weeks, last night had been full of nightmares and very little restful sleep. She looked into Ginny's bright dark eyes and felt a sigh shudder through her thin frame. She knew it was all only getting worse. The gloom that had descended since Dumbledore's death was too insistent to penetrate, and it was worsening every day for people who had known the man as more than a distant legend. Rita Skeeter was already dropping hints to the press about the biography she was coming out with about him and Hermione didn't like the sound of it; the last thing Harry needed was any exposure to the more gruesome facts—whether they were facts or not—of Dumbledore's earlier life.

"I feel terrible," Hermione admitted, putting a hand to her hair as though she was about to attempt to tame it. "The last few weeks have been horrible, haven't they?"

Ginny nodded slowly. "But it's been particularly bad for you. Something beyond Dumbledore. Something involving Malfoy, I'm nearly sure."

Hermione made a face. "I'd rather not."

"But you need to."

She stared back at the younger girl, who looked grimly determined to reserve judgement and keep a strong hold on her stomach in case things in the conversation turned icky. Hermione had to respect her for that. She leaned slightly into the table, hoping that this added discretion would keep the rest of their gloomy house's interest at bay.

"We had an...um...encounter," she admitted, folding her arms on the table. Not surprisingly, the plate of bacon and its wafting scent due to her proximity was not appetizing. "The night we came back from Hogsmeade. Seemed like everything was going well, right? Like we were really friends. Or something," she added quickly, when a look like _that's-not-all-you-were_ crossed Ginny's face. "But I felt terrible because the entire school was looking at us with condemnation and Harry talked Draco out of storming up to confront me about my...er...emotional outburst..."

Ginny was nodding. "Yes, Harry told me all that when he came back to the common room. He said something like Malfoy claimed to have no intention of hurting you." She frowned. "So...what did we all miss, the morning Dumbledore died?"

Hermione paused. She was unsure how to word the next bit that she was about to tell, because it was all still such a tangled mess in her mind. "Later that night, when I woke up at around two in the morning, he came in to talk to me about everything. He seemed all cheerful, you know, like it wasn't a big deal. I mean, not cheerful, but he was acting all amused before we got around to the actual conversation. And then I explained that I was just upset because the whole school seemed to think we were so impossible." She took a deep breath, running an annoyed hand through her hair. Talking about it made some sort of rage act up inside her, an anger that hadn't been present that night, but which was rising quickly now. "So he delicately reiterated, right, exactly _why _what we did in Hogsmeade was so...revolutionary, or something...and I told him to get at what he was getting at and go away, because I thought he was going to tell me off for being all soft and dreamy or something." She scowled when Ginny's lips twitched into a small smirk. "And _then _he sounded all stunned and asked if he had hurt my feelings, and said that he thought I would be _relieved _to go back to ignoring him. So I went ahead and said, well, if that's what you want! And he rambled on about how it wasn't what _he _wanted, and then something about how I didn't _know _anything when I said he was just confusing me, and then he went all cold and snake-like and said our friendship had been an act and that we needn't keep it up any more, and then he left!"

Hermione was into a full-stream rant by now. She didn't notice Ginny hiding the growing smirk behind her hands. "And I'm just...furious! I invested so much in that...that...that stupid _ferret_, and apparently he just hated my guts the whole time! I thought we were really starting to get along!" Ginny let loose a wild giggle. Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You are _not laughing _right now. You are _not_."

"Hermione, it's just too obvious," Ginny said, struggling to smother her giggles. "He really does have a thing for you. Like I said in Hogsmeade. And he thinks he's protecting you by severing all connections because he doesn't want you to get hurt. And we always thought he didn't have the capacity for emotion," she trailed off thoughtfully. "This changes everything. Maybe all Slytherins can be lovely and nice. You're really onto something here."

"He does _not_," she fumed, "have a _thing _for me. He told me that the last two months had been a 'supreme waste of time and effort' and that we 'both know that this is altogether impossible' regarding the whole uniting-houses business. If he had a _thing _for me he wouldn't be such a slimy _git_."

Ginny stared at her, wide-eyed, and let out another giggle. "You have a thing for him too!" she cackled madly. "You really do! Oh, you two are perfect for each other!"

"Yeah, except for one little problem," Hermione gritted out. "_We haven't spoken in fourteen days_."

The younger girl's giggles died out. Her expression turned completely sober. "Well, you're going to have to do something about that, aren't you?"

"Like...what?" Hermione demanded. "_I'm _not going to go crawling to the stupid ferret and ask for him to play nice. No. _He _is the immature child in this situation, and I am _not _going to cater to his every whim. And you're wrong," she added, irritably. "I haven't got a _thing _for him, and he certainly hasn't got a thing for _me_. You don't treat people like that when you like them."

Ginny snorted. "Like Ron didn't row with you constantly for the last six and a half years even though he was dying to snog you. Still is, as a matter of fact. Boys are stupid, Hermione, I thought you knew that."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Let me correct myself, then: Draco Malfoy is not _like this_ to the people he likes. Ron has all the sensibility of a twelve-year-old but Draco knows how to get what he wants. He buys them expensive things—_not _just Hogsmeade trinkets," she added warningly when Ginny looked on the verge of interrupting, "and does them favours and tries to wildly elevate himself in their eyes. And he certainly isn't doing that with me, so he certainly doesn't like me."

Ginny's expression was sober again. "Malfoy buys people expensive things when he wants to _manipulate _them. Maybe he's trying not to manipulate you. Maybe he likes you _more _than anyone else."

At this, Hermione let out her first genuine laugh in weeks. "Fat chance," she said, helping herself to a piece of toast. "I'm Muggle-born. He's pure-blood. When it comes down to it, there's no way in Merlin's pants that he's going to sully his family's lineage no matter how much he likes me."

"So at least you admit he _might _like you."

Hermione groaned, and welcomed the arrival of Harry and Ron, whose presence rendered this topic utterly void. A little of the fog seemed to have lifted from Harry, and when Ginny touched his hand in greeting, he looked at her as though finally seeing her. Ron rolled his eyes and sat down opposite Hermione. She realized that the other side of the table was rather crowded, but hers rather empty, as though the place at her side were reserved for someone else...as though they were still expecting Draco. She glanced toward the Slytherin table, but didn't spot his blond hair. He hadn't turned up for a meal in the Great Hall in weeks, nor had she seen evidence of food in the common room; perhaps he had barricaded himself in his room, though she had glimpsed him in lessons.

"You look a little better."

Harry was as observant as his significant other these days. He was casting a worried look at her. "It's the first time you've eaten something other than toast for breakfast in ages," he added, pointing at the eggs that she had just tipped onto her plate.

She smiled wanly. "Same to you."

He shrugged. "It was coming, we all knew it, and it changes...well, not much. It's horrible, right, but we'll live. And that oaf of a Ministry has bought us some time, you know, to find the other...you-know-whats. At least we know Voldemort's not going to come bursting in interrupting our orange juice."

The dark humour startled a laugh from Hermione and Ginny, and Ron grinned appreciatively. "Right you are, mate," he agreed, beginning to pour sugar onto his porridge. "Besides, we have N.E.W.T.s to get through. You-Know-Who can wait."

Harry grimaced, and Hermione felt a spasm of panic, the first normal fluttering of fear in ages. She hadn't studied nearly as much as she'd intended these past weeks. "You're really feeling guilty about not having drawn us up a schedule yet, aren't you?" Ron demanded of her incredulously. "I can see it on your face. It's still _November_, Hermione, exams are _ages _away."

She scowled. "Have you ever known me to _not _prepare for exams?"

"More like _over-prepare_," Ron muttered, but shot a grin at her, and she couldn't stay mad at him, not today, with Ginny's words still so freshly in her mind. It was doing Ron a great evil, allowing him to go on liking her when she was now quite certain that she could never again reciprocate the feeling the way she once had, but if he didn't speak up about it, it wasn't yet a problem.

_And besides_, she thought to herself wryly, as a sixth-year down the table from them shyly waved hello to the red-haired keeper, _it's not as if he doesn't have his fair share of distractions._

…

The password to the portrait had changed.

Hermione resisted the urge to scream and rip her hair out. Between Ginny's insinuations—no, worse, _accusations—_at breakfast and the stress she was already under, she was ready to rip the portrait from the wall if at all necessary to get through to her work and her solitude. Never mind that a snake was behind that vase of crimson flowers, she needed to get in. And the password wasn't working. It hadn't changed all term, why had it shifted now? And who had failed to tell her the new one?

She fumed. _This wouldn't happen if you weren't such a maniac,_ she thought viciously at one Draco Malfoy. No, she was going to go back to referring to him as Malfoy in her head—see if that kind of psychological mind-game would make her like him less. It would help if his frustrating bits weren't suddenly so endearing. She _wanted _to believe Ginny, she really did, but she couldn't allow herself to go looking for that kind of heartbreak.

"Inventive!" she exploded. "Creative! Farsighted! Prophetic! How many synonyms do I have to name before you bloody _open up already_?"

"Granger," a cool voice said behind her.

She didn't turn, though her back stiffened instantly. "Malfoy," she greeted, her voice as cold as his. "I suppose you might know the new password?"

"Indeed," he answered, his tone wrought with irony. "Disappointment," he told the flowers, and the portrait swung open. It was only then that she noticed that the petals had browned at the edges, and that some were drifting from their flowers entirely. She stared at the painting, appalled, while Malfoy stepped through the portrait-hole and out of sight.


	16. a well executed plan

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

SIXTEEN

_a well-executed plan_

She woke up with a vicious clarity in her mind at precisely two in the morning, according to the magical numbers splayed across her ceiling. There was the vaguest notion that she didn't recall magicking those up there, but she must have, as they'd been there for the last week. What did she need to know the time like that for, anyway? With an annoyed snort, she reached for her wand and waved the numbers away. Her head was filled with suddenly more clarity than she felt she had room for, more clarity than the other day at breakfast, more clarity than the growing bits and pieces that had come to her over the last few days. Hermione felt, for once, truly awake, not buried in banks of blinding, numbing fog. Her first formed thought, in the midst of all this clarity, was that she needed a shower. The blankets were tangled around her; she'd been having a nightmare, sweating through her pyjamas.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the cold air of her bedroom. Yes. It was the perfect time for a shower. And then she was going to execute a plan that would startle even Merlin out of his pants.

She twisted out of her covers, letting them fall to the floor. A little disorder was healthy. The room was too orderly, even for her. It was as though she hadn't existed for the last few weeks. It had all been too much. Dumbledore, and...Draco...She swallowed, letting her eyes wander over the shopping she'd overturned onto her desk in the corner a few days ago. At least she'd had the strength to look at it rather than keep shoving it deeper into her closet. The quill glinted in the moonlight streaming through the window.

She shook her head. This plan could be just a suicide mission. She slipped out of her pyjamas, focusing on the actions, and changed into a robe, tossing the sweaty clothes into her hamper before quietly unlocking the door that led to the bathroom. Draco's door was closed, as it had perpetually been for the last eighteen days; she'd been criminally aware of the way he'd been locked in that room. In fact, she'd been so studiously ignoring him during lessons that she'd barely spotted him once in the last week, during their brief meeting outside the portrait-hole. She crept to the door and listened, hard. He wasn't snoring. Good. That meant he was awake, and she had every right to barge in and have a little discussion.

She was still annoyed—she still didn't want to go to him first—but the new password to their tower was bothering her. _Disappointment_. She wondered how the stupid flowers _knew _that they were failing. Hermione Granger wasn't a perfectionist for nothing. She would tell herself that she wasn't doing it because she missed him, because she didn't miss him at all. She would tell herself that she wasn't doing it because she might have a thing for him, because he certainly didn't have a thing for her. She was doing it for the good of them all, not for herself, because her pride couldn't have taken that kind of damage.

When she was talking, she would just have to focus on his right ear, that was all. If she caught a glimpse of the luminosity in those silvery eyes and started hunting out the blue, all her firm pretences would surely crumble, and she would be left like a leaky hosepipe.

She slipped out of the robe and stepped into a mildly warm shower, letting her eyes close as the thick stone slabs on the floor massaged her feet. Her hair was immediately drenched. The feeling was remarkably pleasant. She stood there for a good fifteen minutes before even making a move to wash. The feeling of rinsing away the fog was too lovely to disturb.

_What if he acts like a slimy git again?_

She snorted and upended a shampoo bottle, ready to scrub her scalp so vigorously that the voice in her brain would be washed away as well. That was her incompetence speaking, because she had been dealing with the slimy git for well over six years, and one more conversation with him wasn't going to kill her.

Draco's snores were still not in evidence as she stepped quietly from the shower, tying her robe around her before going to dig for a new pair of pyjamas in her drawers. She found flannel in Gryffindor colours and a simple white t-shirt, and slipped into them before returning to the bathroom. Carefully, she towel-dried her hair and then began to comb through the snarled strands with her fingers. Unless she dried it a little, it would become a puffball by morning, and it wouldn't help to look presentable when she went in to argue with him. She picked up her wand from the counter and half-dried the strands, leaving it a little damp to form into natural curls. It looked more subdued tonight than usual. Perhaps it sensed her mood. She shrugged and brushed her teeth, staring at herself in the mirror as she did so. She would never be able to think of herself as beautiful, but she guessed she was pretty enough, in a natural sort of way.

She rinsed out her mouth. There was nothing for it, nothing else to do; now was the time. Setting down her toothbrush, she squared her shoulders and crept to the door of Draco's room. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. Aware that her heart was suddenly picking up speed inside her chest—_break up the concrete in there, why don't you_, she thought irritably—she pulled the door open and crept inside.

The light from the bathroom filtered in through the half-open door, casting light on the bizarre cleanliness and minimalism of Draco's room. She didn't pay much mind to the black furniture, her eyes instead adjusting to the dim lighting and finding his bed, which was oddly close to the floor. His blankets were tangled and twisted, almost as hers had been. _Well, I __**hope **__he's having nightmares_, she thought viciously, and took a step toward the bed, feeling as though her feet were feeling out land mines.

A mumble came from beneath all the blankets and sheets. She paused, listening. There was a soft, momentary snore, and then the mumble started again. "...My-nee. 'm sorry..."

A frown creased her forehead and her lips as she stalked forward, now intent on waking him before he could mutter any other stupid things in his sleep. She supposed he was dreaming about cursing her, and sadistically apologizing for it after-the-fact... "Draco," she said loudly, sitting down at the foot of the bed. "Wake up."

There was a grunt from under the covers. Loathe as she was to touch him, she reached out and poked his ankle, which was protruding from the blankets. "Come on. I need to talk to you about something. Wake up."

She caught the arm swinging for her head just in time, roughly pushing it away. "And if you try to take my head off again," she began, but was cut off by his wrist breaking out of her hold and his whole form emerging from beneath the covers, his other hand reaching for her throat.

She blinked. She was staring up at a lightly charcoal-coloured ceiling, the wind knocked out of her, flat on her back. She felt the tip of a wand digging into her throat, and the fast-paced breathing somewhere to her right. Something like a steel cable was holding her to the white carpet. With an effort, she tipped her head up enough to see a white arm pushing her into the ground, holding her down across her collarbone. "Unnecessary," she said faintly, and let her head fall back again. "If you're so worried about intruders maybe you should lock your door."

The pressure on her neck and chest was released; he had let go of her. "If you're so worried about your health maybe you shouldn't come sneaking in on a former Death Eater in the middle of the night," he snapped. His eyes glinted in the light from the bathroom, but the glint was all she could see. She didn't quite feel she had the strength to get up yet. The breathlessness had yet to fade.

"Still," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "Did you _have _to crush me?" _Two meanings_, she thought darkly, but pushed her mind away from that thought path again.

"What do you want, anyway? It's practically three in the morning." There was a groan in his voice. She frowned and, with an immense effort, sat up, immediately forgetting her pact with herself to look at his right ear; she glared straight into his silvery eyes.

There was no hunting for the hint of blue. She was angry. An angry Hermione could forget the feelings she did or did not have for the powerful serpent sitting just feet from her. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and frowned even more deeply. The luminosity of his gaze was having no effect on her. "This is stupid," she declared.

He looked momentarily startled. "What?"

"_This_," she emphasized, gesturing between the two of them. "It's costing me far too much effort to ignore you—so much, in fact, that the last few weeks have felt like I'm completely lacking most of my senses. You're this enormous blind spot on my radar that is _swallowing _the whole screen. I don't care how narcissistic you are, Draco Malfoy, but you are _not _worth this. Either we fix this, or I'm going to McGonagall and turning in my badge, because I cannot _stand _to live with you any longer. And hopefully she'll confiscate yours, too, and some other worthier candidates will try to make this work, because we are certainly a _disappointment_." She forced as much venom as possible into the last word she spoke, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared.

He was frowning, and there was a glimmer of unease in his luminous grey eyes. "_You _can't stand to live with _me_ any longer? At least I don't scream in my sleep every night loud enough to wake the dead. It's difficult to forget about you when your presence is so _loud_." He cringed. Hermione blushed furiously, her gaze dropping to the floor.

"I'm going, then," she retorted, getting to her feet and turning toward the door. "Right now. I'll turn in my badge to McGonagall and go back to Gryffindor tower where I belong." Her voice was pure acid. "And then I'll more _effectively _cut myself out of your life, since you so obviously don't want me there. For the record, you put on a great act. You even had _me_ fooled." She laughed, but it was void of mirth. "I thought we were really friends, Malfoy. We fought all the time but that's not so unusual, I row with Ron and Harry all the time anyway, and you seemed genuinely pleased when we were in Hogsmeade. You even said so. I suppose you're even better of a liar than I thought you were. I just can't believe I fell for it."

Determined now, she marched toward the bathroom door, planning on donning her clothes and cloak and going straight to McGonagall, middle of the night be damned, because she certainly wasn't going to make herself suffer any more than she already had. She was just about to push the door to the bathroom open and run through to furiously dress when there was a flash of red light in the mirror, and in the process of turning to look at it, the world went black.

…

"Bloody hell," Draco growled, stuffing his wand back into the waistband of his pyjamas and stalking toward the unconscious figure on the floor, half sprawled on the carpet, half on the tile of the bathroom. He already regretted the hasty spell; Hermione was going to have a horrible lump from hitting her head on the tile, and he was going to have to somehow make it look as though she'd tripped over the threshold. "Look, I can't have you just running off to McGonagall and turning in your badge," he said to her Stupefied body, his voice half-furious, half-pleading. "I thought you'd be clever enough to realize I'm trying to protect you from homicidal Slytherins and then be polite enough to let me go about my business. But you won't have any of that! You have to get all fucking angry about it..."

With a soft grunt, he stooped down and rolled her limp body into his arms. Unsurprisingly, her small frame was light, and he had no difficulty lifting her. With little effort, he pulled open the door to her bedroom and set her down comfortably amongst all the blankets on her bed. Guilt—yet another emotion he didn't wish to feel—was starting to trickle through him. He scowled. It was part of being amongst her and her Gryffindors, part of changing small things to keep her from killing him in these close living arrangements; he was starting to _feel_. Emotions other than smugness, arrogance, hatred, and fear were not naturally occurring in Draco Malfoy, and something so conscience-sensitive as _guilt _was unnerving. He shuffled uncomfortably. The bump on her forehead, above her right eyebrow, was beginning to swell.

"Fine," he said aloud, with rather more volume than necessary. "Fuck. Just shut up already." He cringed at his own apparent lack of spine—defeated so easily by a stupid little voice at the back of his head, it was preposterous, Malfoys _enjoyed _the pain they inflicted on others, they did not feel badly about it—and scurried off to the bathroom, where there were medical supplies in a cabinet. "You would be better at this than I am," he grumbled, staring blankly at the vials of potions and lists of spells. Maybe just ice, then. It was just a bump on the head. _A big bump, because you find it impossible to say __**I'm sorry**_, the new voice at the back of his head chided, and he snarled.

It wasn't much of a matter to turn water into ice and break it up into small chunks. That done, he gathered a pile into a white cloth and shuffled back into her room. She was utterly still on the bed. He knew it would eventually be necessary to reverse her current state, but he would wait for morning light. Or later. "You're much easier to deal with unconscious," he growled at her, dragging the armchair to her bedside and pressing the ice to the growing lump on her forehead.

His eyes took in her pink lips and her curly brown hair, the slight nature of her form beneath her clothes, and he shook his head. What was he going to do now? He couldn't apologize for this, for trying to keep her out of harm's way, nor could he explain it, because then he would be quite found out. He gritted his teeth. _Feelings...for this...this..._He couldn't even allow himself to think the word. Hermione had proven herself to be so much more than that, than a title that had been given her by the pure-bloods of the Wizarding world. If one didn't know her last name, only knew her talent, she would pass as a pure-blood witch.

A stupidly beautiful pure-blood witch.

He let out a quiet groan, raising the hand that wasn't holding ice to her head to grip his blond hair. "I'm just going to have to say you tripped, and you fell," he muttered. "And you'll be so confused that you won't be sure you were planning on going to McGonagall, and I'll steer your thoughts in the direction of a loud, angry fight. I'll help you recover and Merlin knows we'll continue this stupid conversation, and you'll probably get your way, because if there's one thing that's going to ruin me it's you screaming my name in the middle of the night like I'm torturing you. Or like you expect me to save you and I'm just standing by, letting you die. You stupid, stupid girl. This can never work. It _should _never work. He's still out there, he's going to come back, and both of us are going to get ourselves killed." He edged forward to look into her face, turning her gently onto her back. His free hand tugged a sheet and a blanket over her body. "As if it weren't enough that I have to worry about him killing me and my family, and I'm in the middle of this bloody identity crisis thanks to you. As if that weren't enough. You have to _change _me, too. To make me feel something other than ownership or greed or hate or jealousy. It was easier before you. It was so much easier."

His hand found its way to her limp one, and his fingers held hers. The tattoo on his forearm, though dormant, seared fear into every particle of his being. "He'll come back," he whispered, his jaw tight. "But maybe by then I'll have convinced you it's safer to disappear."


	17. reconciliation

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

SEVENTEEN

_reconciliation_

"Ow. Merlin's beard, ow."

Keeping her eyes shut tight, because the light drifting through her window was adding to the pain, Hermione's hands flew to her forehead. Another hand pushed them off just as they reached the ball of cold pressed against her temple. "Just stay still," a familiar voice instructed her, and she frowned. Who was that? She could place the silkiness, but the tone was so very unfamiliar—soothing, almost, smooth. Bowed with the slightest bit of concern. She frowned, letting her hands fall to her sides. "You tripped," the voice added, a hint of amusement colouring the velvety sound. Well, that was more familiar, anyway, the amusement at someone else's pain. "I made you very angry. So angry that your ability to be careful disappeared."

It was coming back now, in shapes and blurs. "You practically tackled me," she gasped out. "I certainly didn't trip."

The voice was a little impatient now. "No, that was before. You sat up and gave me your little speech—or don't you remember? It was quite well-delivered, it would be a shame if you've forgotten..."

She gritted her teeth. No, she remembered. It was worse that he was taunting her for it now. It also didn't explain why he was in this room with her, nursing her wounds, because they'd certainly left things on a rather bad note. The details started to get fuzzy near the end. Clouded with the near-strangling she'd received moments before, or with the rage, or because of this...this...bump on her head? "No, I remember that bit," she said aloud, cringing when her own voice made her head throb. "But not much else. Was I on my way to McGonagall or just to cry? I must have hit my head very hard."

"The crying, I think. Your voice was approaching hysteria. And yes, you did not fall at all gracefully." His was still in the vicinity of soothing, which was a major sticking point for Hermione. If this was the real Draco Malfoy, something horrible was coming soon to make up for all the semi-nice. If this was a dream...well, it couldn't be; she was in far too much pain. "I'm..." His voice paused, seemed to choke. Ah. She nearly breathed a sigh of relief. There it was. He was trying to say something meaningful and it was stuck, because Malfoys didn't say meaningful things. "I...apologize," he gritted out, "if I said something that upset you." That was surprising, though maybe he felt guilty because she'd nearly cracked her skull. Or maybe it _was _cracked. She sensed a _but _clause about to be appended to his reluctant apology. That would be more like it, anyway. "I merely thought, given the circumstances, that neither of the options you proposed would result in anything advantageous, for either of us."

"Peace of mind, to me, seems rather advantageous," she snarled, her eyes snapping open, and sat up.

The blood immediately rushed to her head. Black spots appeared in her vision. Draco's arm shot out to steady her. "You shouldn't have done that," he grumbled. "Lay back before you kill yourself."

She fell back on her pillows, but kept her eyes open. His arm steadied her on the way down. "Peace of mind is debatable," he said, delicately, as she turned her head to face him. "The Slytherins haven't quite gotten over our...er...performance in Hogsmeade, and if they knew that we were still on speaking terms, they might kill us both. You've had very little contact with your house over the last few weeks because you've been in such a state ignoring me, but they're not entirely happy with you, either." She let out a shrill laugh, made even more hysterical by the pain in her head. "You think it's ridiculous," he growled sternly, "but House unity isn't exactly going to be achieved by both of our houses hating us _and _one another."

"Oh, so you're all for house unity now, are you?" she snapped. "I thought it was 'altogether impossible'." She crossed her arms over her chest, of half a mind to push off the ice that he was pressing to her head. It wasn't like it was helping much.

He paused. "I was angry," he said carefully. "You were being dense."

"_I _was being dense?" she cried. "You're the one who changes his mind for the slightest, ridiculous reasons! The direction of the wind, the number of people in a crowd—"

"I do _not_," he said, appearing deeply offended.

"Oh, you don't? One minute we're perfectly friendly in Hogsmeade and the next you're telling me it was all a bloody act, well, was it, Malfoy?"

"I never said it was an act," he said quietly.

"Well, get your arse out of my room, I don't—"

"I _said_," he snapped, a bit louder, "I never said it was an act!"

She stopped, frowning. Now that she thought of it, running through their conversations like microfilms in her mind, he hadn't actually said those words. "No," she said slowly. "No, you just acted like a slimy git and said it would be 'better, safer' if we had 'minimal contact' with one another." She frowned at him. "What on earth does that _mean_?"

He frowned back at her, pressing the ice harder to her head when she tried to flinch away. "Weren't you listening a moment ago? Our homicidal houses are planning to draw and quarter us. Doesn't it sound 'better' and 'safer' to you to appease them before they commit murder?"

"I don't see why we have to ignore one another to do that." She stared up at the ceiling, aware that her tone was approaching petulance. "Publicly, yes, but we were getting on well enough on our own. Polite, even."

He let out a hiss of frustration. "Yes, Hermione," he growled, drawing out the words. "We are friends. It wasn't an act. But what we're doing isn't _wise_. And you were acting like you had gotten rather sick of it. I was having a good time, remember? I was just letting you back out because that's what you wanted."

"That's not what I wanted. I was sad, not stupid. Injustice in the world tends to have that effect on me. I'm sure you dimly recall my campaign against enslaving house-elves."

"You were acting like you wanted nothing to do with me." She saw his smirk out of the corner of her eye. "Like the instant your own house turned on you you'd had enough. I was being a gentleman."

_Except for all the confusing bits you said __**before **__you severed all contact between us_, she thought irritably, but she wasn't about to mention that. "I thought you were coming in to tell me off for being so weak. I was trying to defend myself," she muttered, closing her eyes. "Can you let off on the ice? My head is cold."

She thought she heard a low chuckle as he removed the cold from her temple. His fingers pressed carefully around the sensitive area. She flinched. "It looks better," he said, sounding pleased with himself. "The swelling's gone down considerably."

"How long have I been out, anyway?"

"About...seven hours." She heard his yawn. "I told McGonagall that I'd bring you up to the hospital wing so that Madam Pomfrey could fix you up once you were awake."

Her eyes fluttered open again and she took a glance at him. There were shadows under his eyes. "You stayed up to take care of me?" she asked, feeling seriously wrong-footed.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you unconscious on the bathroom floor? For the record, I _did _get in a nap or two. But I'm not _that _horrible. You know me better." He gave her an accusatory look.

"I thought I did," she murmured, and sat up again, more slowly this time. His hand, again, reached out to steady her. She took a glance at him again, and let her lungs gulp a deep breath of air. "Look," she said, tiredly. "My head is killing me and this argument is making it worse. I don't know what to think about you. I _liked _being friends with you. It was off-putting and everything but it was easier than jumping down one another's throats. But I'm afraid you're just manipulating me."

His jaw had tightened while she spoke; he didn't meet her gaze. "This isn't for appearances any more. If we're going to be friends, or polite acquaintances, or whatever we were, we're not taking it out in the open again any time soon. It's still a war out there. But here, as long as your bloody cat doesn't kill me, we can be friends."

She couldn't help it; a smile twitched the corner of her mouth, and she nodded. "I think it's a bad idea," he warned as he stood up. "I'm risking getting clawed to death, and you might fall victim to my notorious rage, since it's been a regular occurrence before. And let's face it, our personalities are not the most compatible."

She snorted. "It hasn't killed me yet."

A brief flash of something—something like pain—flashed across his features before they were smooth again. "Get dressed. I have to take you to the hospital wing before they think I _have_ killed you."

She swung her legs out of bed. The light-headedness had faded, a bit. "Draco?" He was already at the door.

"What?" he growled, his voice utterly exasperated now.

"You said I was screaming in my sleep." For once, she kept her gaze focused on the bit of his face that was visible. "What was I saying?"

His face twisted, again, in that brief pain before smoothing over. "My name." His voice was so full of tension that she expected it to snap. "Like you were being tortured to death and expected me to save you." Before she could fire off any other questions, or say another word, he said, "Just get dressed. Please. You'll feel better when we fix your head." A shadow of a smirk crossed his lips, and then the door shut behind him.

…

He was watching her with an air of _protection_, Minerva McGonagall noted, feeling quite aghast at the idea. She had never known Draco Malfoy to be anything but a bullying, swaggering, sneering, manipulative kind of boy, but now he stood at the foot of Hermione Granger's bed with a watchful eye while Madam Pomfrey mended the girl's head. Occasionally, Granger cringed, and Malfoy would squeeze the rail at the end of the bed, offering her a very small, sympathetic look. These facial expressions that passed between them wouldn't have been so unusual, if McGonagall hadn't had it on good authority that the boy was a Death Eater, not to mention that he'd done everything in his power to make Granger miserable for the last six years.

She had had her misgivings when Dumbledore had suggested this, but she had allowed it without too much discussion; it was one of the last decisions he would make for the school, after all. She had expected that of all people to show her bravery in the face of that kind of animosity, it would be Hermione Granger. She had not, however, expected anything other than cool indifference to blossom between the pair. The way he was looking at the Gryffindor now was almost the way Potter or Weasley would look at her; like he cared.

"A word, Mr. Malfoy?" she called from the doorway of the hospital wing. His head snapped up in a flash. Granger gave a grimace that looked oddly regretful.

"I'll be back," he murmured to her, his tone oddly soothing, and indeed, she did look soothed. Her warm brown eyes followed his footsteps toward the door, and then met McGonagall's gaze, albeit briefly. She nodded once, as though to say, _I know it's odd_, and then rested back against the many pillows behind her. Madam Pomfrey took the opportunity to go about a more rigorous healing, judging by the cringe that overcame the girl's features.

"Yes, Professor?"

He was being coolly polite, even to her, and it was unnerving. "How exactly did Miss Granger fall ill?" she questioned, indicating that they should walk along the corridor. With nothing more than a polite nod, he fell in step at her side.

"We had a bit of a disagreement," he admitted, his voice regretful. "And she was running off to slam the bathroom door in my face when she tripped. It was my fault; I'm sure I upset her, but it's all been accounted for now."

"A disagreement?" McGonagall said dryly. "Over what?"

He didn't speak for a moment, but when he did, his voice seemed much colder. "Our friendship is very problematic," he said quietly.

"Friendship." Her voice was flat, disbelieving. She felt she had the right to scepticism. She might have expected to hear that word out of Granger's mouth, but not Malfoy's.

"I suppose it's a loose definition of the term, as sometimes I can barely stand her, and I'm sure she feels the same about me. But we have our good days. Hogsmeade a few weeks ago," he amended, as though to give an example. "That was enjoyable."

"It didn't help the enmity between your houses." Her voice was stern.

His eyes narrowed. "Yes. We know. We are planning a different course of action for our future...endeavours. It was going rather well, before that."

They had reached the end of the corridor. "You are behaving yourselves rather better than we had expected," she commented, her beady eyes examining his through her square spectacles.

"Yes, well," he said, his voice subdued again. "It's quite enlightening to see how the other half lives, isn't it?" He glanced toward the hospital wing, as though something invisible was pulling him toward it again.

"I understand your desire to return to Miss Granger. I have only one thing left to speak of." He turned back to her, his face a mask. The dark shadows under his eyes were prominent, and, upon closer inspection, there was a frantic sort of look in his silver eyes, but it was quickly smoothed over. "Professor Dumbledore left me with strict instructions to speak to you on the matter if you had not come to him before his death." She felt the usual pain in her chest at the thought of the dead Headmaster. "The Order can offer you protection, in the event of You-Know-Who's re-emergence. We will not make any demands of you."

His eyes burned. "My mother?"

"Yes." She was reluctant to say it. "Your father, as well, if you wish it."

"No," he said brusquely. "No, my father can rot in Azkaban for the rest of his life." She was far too surprised to reprimand him. He sighed, the burning in his eyes going out, replaced by the icy look that was so much more familiar—and yet suddenly so misplaced—on this face. "I'm sure you knew he'd been given that sentence. He won't walk out of those walls—not alive, anyway. Not this time." He didn't seem altogether unhappy about that. "Well, Hermione will be relieved," he murmured. "Thank you."

She nodded, still too astounded to speak, and watched him leave. Had Albus Dumbledore still been alive, she would have vowed never to underestimate his choices again.


	18. treason

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

EIGHTEEN

_treason_

"How're things with Malfoy, anyway, Hermione? He hasn't eaten with us in a while...over there chumming it up with his Slytherin pals..."

Hermione's head snapped up and turned to her right; Ron was eyeing her in interest. Ginny immediately looked on pincushions. Harry was frowning, not paying attention; since Dumbledore's death, he'd been spending a lot of time staring blankly at some object or another. The Horcruxes—Hermione's skin crawled when she thought of them, but she knew that he was thinking about them all the time, day and night. Ginny was good about leaving him alone, though if it had been Hermione, she would have pestered him constantly about his sudden withdrawal. She seemed to sense that it wasn't information meant to be shared with her, whatever it was—not that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were doing much other than sitting on it.

They had gotten hold of some books on the things; Harry had been to Dumbledore's office after his funeral and pulled out all the books on Horcruxes that had been removed from the school library when he became Headmaster. None of them, however, had had the nerve to peel back the pages yet. Dumbledore's death was too fresh, the remainder of the Death Eaters were so many pesky flies on a hot summer's day, and it seemed too soon to run off looking for pieces of Voldemort's soul when the real bit of him had been reduced, yet again, to a half-alive state. Inside the walls of Hogwarts, it was easy to forget about Horcruxes. Too many emotional teenage dramas were raging.

Ron was still looking at her with raised eyebrows. She swallowed the mouthful of potatoes she had been chewing. If there was one thing she didn't want to talk about with Ron, it was Draco Malfoy.

"It's been alright," she said carefully. "We haven't had a row in, what, a week? A significant one, at least. I just thought it would be better to let the whole House unity issue sit for a while. It's getting a bit difficult for both of us." She glanced down at the food still left on her plate. Some small part of her missed Slytherin food; the bitterness was a welcome change to how rich everything here was. She found it all somehow unappetizing tonight.

Harry had pulled himself from his reverie. "Did you annoy him? He keeps glancing this way," he commented, frowning as he craned to the side to look past Ron and Hermione.

She glanced over her shoulder. Silver eyes briefly met hers across the Great Hall—a smirk bloomed in his features—and Draco looked away again, re-joining a conversation with Parkinson and Zabini. A smile tugged at the corner of her lip, and she ducked her head to hide it.

"I might have mocked him for being childish this morning," she admitted, though she was quite sure that he was beyond that. It was more likely that he was watching—like he seemed to do so often now—for any sign that things were going awry on the opposite end of the Great Hall. Usually she seated herself on the other side of the table, so that she could do the same, but Harry and Ginny had beaten her to dinner tonight.

Ron was frowning; the muscles in her body started to tense, anticipating an argument. "Seems like you get along with him all right, though."

She nodded. "He seems to be making an effort to be less of a git."

Ginny laughed, as though encouraging Ron to drop it, but his scowl deepened. "He's manipulating you," he told her, his voice low, as though the Slytherin could hear them from across the chattering hall. "Trying to get into your good graces so that he can really get the scoop on all of us. Especially Harry." He made a gesture to encapsulate their little group.

"What _good_ would it do him?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Harry opened his mouth as though to speak, but then shut it again; he seemed unwilling to let the truth out, but uneasy about keeping it in. _Death Eater_, the look in his eyes said. _He's a bloody Death Eater_. The significance was finally striking home with him. She wondered if he'd spill the beans to Ron now or wait until she stormed off to hand over the news. She wondered if he trusted her judgement at all.

"What good has it ever done him? He just likes getting under our skin. Being a git." The look on Ron's face was ugly.

"Well, he's certainly gotten under yours," she commented. "You really think that Malfoy trying to be nice is cause for alarm? Maybe his father's imprisonment—maybe the way Voldemort treated his family—has got him thinking that he's fighting the wrong battle. Maybe he's just trying to change, and you're ruining that chance for him by keeping memories of his past alive and well."

"Ferrets do _not _deserve second chances," Ron snapped, brandishing a fork.

Hermione set down her knife a little harder than necessary, forgetting about food entirely. She could feel the heat of soft anger beginning to slip up her neck. Her brown eyes snapped to his blue ones. "You were all right with him barely weeks ago," she said, her voice straining with the pressure of staying in control.

"I wasn't thinking straight. None of us were. He could be dangerous, Hermione. He could be unhinged. He's got enough to be angry about. Dad and Aunt in prison, Mum's probably a mess, and right when the pure-bloods were about to rule the world his best mate got a face full of about six _Avada Kedavras_ and disappeared again." He was frowning at her, hard. "You can't seriously think he's not looking for revenge for _something_."

"You don't know him," she said quietly, aware that this not the best thing to say to prevent a fight, but somehow unable to stop herself.

"And you _do_? What're you on about, Hermione—you don't actually think you two are _friends_, that's practically treason_—_"

He had struck a nerve, a very sensitive, ragged, terrified one. "Did it ever occur to you," she snapped, her voice coming low and fast, "that he's treated me far worse than he's treated any of you? At least you're his _equals_! When it comes to blood status you have more standing with him than I do, he's been bandying about for years calling you poor and making fun of Harry's _scar _but that's nothing, nothing compared to being reminded that in this world, you are inferior!" His mouth had popped open soundlessly. "To him I've always been a Mudblood and no matter what I do, no matter how _good _I am at all this, it doesn't _matter_. So do you really think that I would even _consider _his ability to change unless I'd thought good and hard about it? Do you think I have no integrity at all?"

Her stomach was roiling. Not bothering to answer the senseless gabbling coming at her, she threw her bag over her shoulder and stalked toward the entrance hall, quivering with indignation. Thoughts of him infuriated her on her way up the many stairs. _To think_, she fumed, _I once adored that boy. And now he's just insufferable, he's always been so prejudiced and I was blind, or it didn't bother me, what a waste of six years...not like my current problem is any better...not like fancying yourself in love with Draco Malfoy can ever end well..._

She snorted aloud, tackling another set of stairs. No, it certainly couldn't end well.

"Hermione." A hand shot out of the tapestry, stopping her at the top of the flight of stairs. She jumped, automatically putting distance between herself and the tapestry as a red-headed individual emerged.

"You walk quickly when you're angry," Ron huffed, "I had to take about six short-cuts to catch up." He panted, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

She turned to climb the next flight of stairs, wanting to get well out of his vicinity. "You needn't have bothered," she said viciously.

He followed close at her side. "Come on," he said, his voice pleading. "Don't be angry. I just don't want him getting in your head—messing with you—it's bad enough that you have to live with him all the time, he could be brainwashing you. What's that Muggle disease called? Stack...Stockle..."

"I do _not _have Stockholm syndrome," she snapped. "I am _not _his captive."

He backed down. "You're never around any more. It's lonely, you know. Harry's always thinking about Horcruxes and Ginny's trying to get on and not notice and I'm just...there. Not doing anything, feels like. And you're gone, and it's making me all edgy, because Malfoy _scares _me, Hermione. He's cruel and he likes to watch other people suffer, wouldn't _you _worry, if your best friend were starting to get chummy with someone like that?"

They had reached the corridor that led to the portrait; she stopped walking, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked up at him. "Oh, Ron," she said sadly. "If he wanted to kill me, wouldn't he have done it already?"

"Maybe he has something more evil planned," he muttered, but he looked modestly reassured.

She laughed. "When have you ever known Malfoy to plan ahead? His pranks are all very short-term."

His eyes were still serious. "This isn't a game. This is your life."

She sighed. "I sleep with my wand at the ready, and I don't take anything for granted. I'm not Head Girl for nothing, Ron. He's certainly not going to sneak up on me."

"I'm not worried about _that_. I can't get used to you being friends with him. It's bloody terrifying. He's been tormenting you—us—for _six years_, Hermione. That kind of hate doesn't just go away." He scuffed his feet against the ground. "How do you tolerate someone like that?"

"Because he's changing—you must _see_ that." The unconvinced look crossed his face. "You lot will never be bosom friends with him, I know that," she agreed, and suddenly her voice was pleading. "But just _try _to give him a chance—for me, Ron. For my own sanity. When you act like this I feel like I'm being torn in half."

Her eyes were bright with a gleam of tears that hadn't yet gathered enough to fall. He ran a hand through his hair and huffed in frustration. "Okay, okay," he grumbled. "But if he kills us all I'm going to say..."

"_I told you so_," she nodded, agreeing.

He was suddenly hugging her, hard; the breath whooshed out of her lungs, and she remembered why she had always had a soft spot for Ron Weasley. He could be cruel, but he could be kind; he cared about her, even if he had a stupid way of showing it. She let her forehead rest against his shoulder, and knew that it could all be much simpler with him. She could abandon her friendship with Draco, maintain cool indifference, and throw herself back in with Harry and Ron as completely as she once had. Perhaps this time Ron would notice her. Perhaps he wouldn't keep her waiting forever.

But Hermione Granger had always been a champion of the weak and downtrodden—house-elves, badly-tempered cats, wrongly-accused hippogriffs—and she couldn't walk away from an underdog she had become so devoted to. Her social conscience, and her heart, were both too invested for her to do anything of the sort.

…

The portrait-hole was not opening.

Hermione sat down on the floor, staring at it blankly. Angry, irritated, frustrated, depressed; she'd cycled through too many negative emotions in the last thirty minutes. Her brain, a computer over-heating, was shutting down. She didn't have any interest in guessing new passwords today. She noted with passionate disinterest that the petals which had fallen from the flowers were gone. Those that had begun to brown at the edges were gleaming healthily again. She couldn't be bothered.

"What're you doing on the floor, Granger?"

Surprise always seemed to bring out the six-year-engrained part of Draco. She looked up at where he towered over her, his face a mask of confusion and the hint of a sneer. One hand was balancing two golden platters with lids, one stacked on top of the other. With a sigh, she reached up; automatically, it seemed, his hand caught hers to haul her to her feet. "I was letting my brain restart before trying to come up with a new password for this thing," she said, gesturing to the portrait. The petals trembled. "It won't open."

"Anticipation," he said casually, and with a creak, the flowers swung forward. "Why did you need to...what did you say?" he asked, that look of confusion crossing his face again.

"Restart. It means that I was trying to turn my brain off to give myself some time without thinking. I'm sure you noticed the squabble at the Gryffindor table. _They _even noticed you were watching, and Harry hasn't noticed anything for weeks." With a tired sigh, she heaved her bag onto her shoulder.

He eyed her critically as they moved through the portrait-hole. "You've been crying."

"Ron can be very frustrating." She glared back at him. "What're you doing up here, anyway? Dinner was nowhere near finished."

"Thought I'd nick some food from the house-elves," he said with a shrug. "Got you some, too, since I saw you storm off." He set the platters down on the low table in front of the couch, and whisked off the lids. The scent of the food drew her irresistibly forward to take a seat beside him, and she smiled slightly in appreciation, though he ignored it. "What were you bickering about, anyway?"

"You," she said off-handedly, lifting her utensils. The platter was laden with a pork chop in what smelled like a white wine vinegar sauce, topped with fresh green beans and surrounded by candied apples and walnuts. She cut a piece of the meat eagerly.

"What about _me_?" he asked, annoyed. He, too, was digging into his food.

"Ron's sure that you're manipulating me to get information on the three of us," she answered, and took a bite. Instant bliss. "He thinks you're dangerous, unhinged. I got him to shut it, eventually. I may have guilted him a little." He raised his eyebrows at her, and a blush climbed into her cheeks. "I implied that his insensitivity was putting me under undue stress," she admitted. "Which it _is_," she added, hopelessly, as Draco smirked.

"You're getting more like a Slytherin every day." He flicked his wand, summoning a bottle of wine, which soared down the stairs from his bedroom and landed neatly on the table between them.

"It _is_," she insisted. "I can't cry at command, you know. It's not _that _easy. It really does bother me. He always seems to find the most sensitive subjects to harp on..."

"_I'm _a sensitive subject?" he snorted.

"In this situation. I'm being chummy with someone who's called me Mudblood for six years, they can't see my motivation for it."

"Nor can I," he grumbled, mouth full of food, but at her disgusted look, swallowed."If you ask me, _he _is worse than me," he declared. "Seeing as he usually has a much stupider reason to be angry at you."

"Oh, yes," she said, rolling her eyes, "because blood status is a very good reason, whereas fraternizing with the enemy is a very bad one."

"Don't defend him," he threatened, raising a fork. "He's indefensible. Besides, you know I've gotten over that bit."

"What bit, the Mudblood bit?" she said tersely, stabbing her food savagely. "Have you _really_?"

He frowned in her direction. "How else would I be friends with you?"

She stewed silently.

"I might still think blood status matters, but another three-quarters of the world doesn't, and they vastly outnumber me," he pointed out, looking neither pleased nor displeased about this. Instead, a strained neutrality was present in his features. "My way of thinking has obviously become archaic."

She continued to glare at the table, chewing her food forcefully.

"It's not something that just _goes away_," he said, his voice rising in exasperation. "It's been engrained in me for seventeen years, I'm bloody _trying_, aren't I?"

She swallowed, and sighed. "I know," she said, quietly.

He took her acquiescence as an end to that particular conversation and let the subject drop. "Anyway," he continued, as he scooped up another mouthful, "Snape mentioned Christmas decorations to me the other day, and I'd forgotten, we need to talk to the prefects about all that. There's been a complete absence of prefect activity the last few weeks but everyone's recovered enough for things to start transitioning back to normal, don't you think? Because we'll need to start decorating next week. It's practically December already."

With a start, she realized that he was right. "Yeah, it is," she said, frowning at her food. "Bollocks. I hate decorating for Christmas. It's fun until Peeves tries to strangle you with tinsel."

He snickered; it seemed to be as close as he could get to a real laugh. "Well, it's not as if we have to do much more than supervise; the younger prefects are supposed to handle it. But we should call a meeting soon, give them instructions."

"Yeah," she agreed, and finished off a slice of candied apple, still frowning slightly. It was unlike her to forget something like that, even given recent events. She felt unpleasantly wrong-footed.

"What're you doing over the holidays, anyway?" he asked, pushing his platter away and conjuring two goblets, which he tipped the wine into. It seemed as though he were trying to break her out of her contemplations.

"I usually try not to solidify my plans until the last minute," she said wryly, accepting the goblet. "Unforeseen events can prevent me from spending Christmas at the Burrow, so I try not to think about it until we're practically to the train ride. It was lovely going to my parents' last year, though, so I wouldn't mind if I weren't welcome. Though they're skiing this year...and it's really not my thing..." Distaste coloured her tone.

"So one of these 'unforeseen events' happened last year, did it?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. He looked as though he were trying his best not to smirk.

"Ron starting...er...dating Lavender Brown," she said, trying to keep the revulsion in her voice to a minimum. "There was a lot of hostility in the whole situation. I might have conjured birds and ordered them to peck him to death." He was staring at her as though he'd never seen her before. "Well, he'd _said _he would go to Slughorn's stupid Christmas party with me!" she cried, exasperated. "And then he started snogging that positively _daft _girl everywhere! It was horrible!"

He had dissolved into snickers. "You're better off without him, honestly," he managed to choke out.

As she rolled her eyes and returned to her food, she couldn't help but think he was right.


	19. invitations

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

NINETEEN

_invitations_

"You're really a bloody perfectionist, aren't you?"

In the semi-darkness, his hand closed around her wrist, preventing the spell she had been about to perform. She gave him a reproachful look, and then squinted into the light from his wand. "It's crooked," she protested, her other hand inching forward to adjust the tinsel around the suit of armour manually, but his other hand closed around that wrist, too, rendering her useless. The look was no longer reproachful; it was a glare. The light lit both their faces from beneath and cast murky shadows on the ceiling of the corridor. It was a late night patrolling, the castle was freezing, and in Hermione's opinion, the decorations were not up to standards.

"It's good for you, not having to fix everything all the time," he told her. Now that she was over the initial irritation, she could feel the tell-tale reactions to his proximity beginning to kick in: the heart rate, slowly escalating; the blush, steadily creeping; the breathing, thinning, try as she might to suppress it. She looked anywhere but his silver eyes, focusing on the crooked tinsel, glinting innocently in the dim light.

The worst part, she thought, was that she was certain he was beginning to notice. The smirk on his face was not the right kind of smirk; it was gloating rather than taunting, but there was nothing to _gloat_ about here. "Just relax," he said, still with that nerve-racking smirk. "You have bigger things to worry about than the tinsel."

"Like what?" she scoffed, gripping her wand more tightly, though it did her no good. His hands held her wrists completely immobile.

"Like Pansy Parkinson," he murmured. They were close enough that she felt his breath against her skin, smelling, as always, of peppermint. In that moment, she was certain she would soon stop breathing. "She's coming this way—I hear her."

Hermione heard her, too—the thick and fast footsteps scurrying toward their particular corridor. Without another word, he stepped away from her, and let the light extinguish. It took several seconds for Hermione's eyes to adjust, and by then, Parkinson was approaching them.

"Evening, Pansy," Draco greeted easily, but with no sentiment. "Here to relieve us? You're a bit early...and without your partner."

"Yes," she said, with frigid coldness. "I'd hoped to have a word with Granger...alone."

Hermione didn't look at Draco, though she tensed immediately. "Certainly," she heard her own voice saying graciously. "Excuse us, won't you?" she directed at him, not meeting his gaze. His second of hesitation was hardly noticeable, and then he strolled off down the corridor, keeping out of earshot.

Parkinson did not make a move to step closer to her, but made no effort to tiptoe around the topic of this conversation. "What've you done to him?" she demanded in a low, furious voice.

Hermione blinked in surprise. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Ever since you two became Head Boy and Girl," she seethed, "ever since you've been living together, he's changed. He acts so...so indifferently towards me. You know, Draco's never been very interested in girls at all, but we've always—"

"—had a bit of a thing, yeah," Hermione finished, nodding. Her heart was beating very fast. The girl's teeth gritted; she wondered how long it would be before Parkinson attacked her. "He was a bit put out when you went to Hogsmeade with Zabini," she added, a touch desperately.

The fuming seemed to pause. "He...was?"

Hermione nodded, seeing her way out of the confrontation. "Yes, you know, that's why he asked me to go," she said, feeling that her voice was slightly higher-pitched than usual. "I'm sure he thought I would make you the most furious, being a Gryffindor and Muggle-born and everything. I _knew _he was just using me to make you jealous," she laughed, and even _that _sounded unusually high-pitched, "but Harry and Ron were busy with Quidditch, I wouldn't have had anyone to go with otherwise, and that would have been dull."

"But," she said slowly, "I took Blaise to make _him _jealous."

"All a big miscommunication then, isn't it? Perhaps you should talk to him about it, you know, if you really like him. It always seemed like you two would end up together." Her words were a little faster than usual, too. She hoped the Slytherin girl wouldn't notice.

"Oh," she said, a bit stupidly. "Oh." There was a long silence for a moment. "But how do you just...talk about something, like that?"

"Maybe you should make a gesture," Hermione suggested, her words a little more distinct now. She felt herself breathe easier. "Christmas is coming up—why don't you buy him a nice gift, and attach a note, you know, something that hints that you're still interested?"

"Right," the other girl said, still seeming a bit dazed. "Well, erm...thanks, Granger." The words were grudging. At that moment, footsteps approached yet again; the same sixth-year Slytherin who usually patrolled with Parkinson approached them.

"You're welcome," Hermione said, feeling that her blood pressure might at last be returning to normal. "We'll turn in, then. Good night." She turned to join Draco further up the corridor, where he was frowning in thought at one of the tapestries.

"Good night, Draco," the girl's voice called after them, and his head turned toward her, his expression blank.

"Good night," he replied shortly, and joined Hermione as she walked quickly by him. "What was all that about?" he added in a much lower voice—which sent pleasant tingles down her spine—as they turned up the staircase. So much for her blood pressure.

"Nothing," she murmured, feeling her eyes begin to prickle as the implications of the conversation she'd just had began to strike. She had _encouraged _the girl. And it was true that Draco had been jealous—yes, he'd been upset—and if she started lavishing attention on him again...well, they were old enough. They'd been waiting for it possibly since their respective births. She did not hold out any exceptional hope that her current romantic interest in Draco Malfoy would pan out in her favour, no matter which way it went, but her own ability to solidify their separate fates on her own both impressed and devastated her.

Not that she _really _believed he would end up with Parkinson, in the end. The girl had never stopped looking like a pug. He could do much better.

"Don't give me that. Was she berating you? For what, I can't imagine—"

"—can you really not?" she snapped, her gaze flicking up to his, and in a shaft of moonlight, he glimpsed the moisture glazing her eyes. She turned away again, all the more bitter for the surprise and momentary worry that crossed his features before they smoothed again.

"No. I can be quite dense. Enlighten me."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Then show me. You won't have to talk at all."

They were somewhere on the fifth floor. Her eyes jumped back to his, eyebrows knitting together, as he stopped walking. He was utterly serious, she could see it in his face. He was asking permission to leaf through her brain like a book. "No," she said, unsteadily.

"Trust me." The words echoed. "I won't go finding anything you don't want me to see—just focus on what happened."

She shook her head, but knew he could see the indecision in her face.

"I have to figure out exactly _what _kinds of situations make you cry," he said, his voice slightly exasperated now, "so that we can avoid them. In case you haven't noticed, I'm terrible at dealing with emotional females."

She laughed, the sound a little high-pitched again, as he moved toward her and reached out to take her chin in his hand. Her heart was thrumming again, even as it felt swollen and bruised, and she felt reckless, a bit ridiculous for even considering this. Hermione Granger did not take undue chances, but this feeling like she was intoxicated by his proximity was causing her to do senseless, stupid things. There were things in her head that were dangerous to put in the hands of Draco Malfoy—not just her emotions, but real things. Things about Harry and Ron and Horcruxes. "Please don't look anywhere else," she told him, hardly believing her lips spoke the words. She allowed her eyes to meet his, knowing that it would be easier, quicker, if she just let him in.

"Trust me," he said again, and then she felt him.

It wasn't the deluge of memories he had released so long ago during that fight; it was calm, a tiptoeing presence occupying her brain with her, gentle. She became quite unaware of the silver eyes she was staring into, instead fascinated by the addition to her mind. _Focus_, a thought brushed her, and she did, letting her mind fill up with the interaction between herself and Pansy. She had been on such pincushions wondering whether or not the girl was about to curse her that few traces of other emotions came through—exasperation was the strongest—and she wondered if he could even taste them at all.

Her head felt oddly lit up, with him in there, and as the encounter ended, her concentration broke; feelings flooded her, nerves about having him in there poking around, fears of what he might find—

"Don't worry," his silky, cool voice murmured. "I'm already gone. Tell me what there was to be upset about there."

She slowly became aware that she was still staring into those silvery eyes; the blue seemed more pronounced, somehow, at the moment. His hand was still cupping her chin. "Girls respond strangely to stress," she replied, making her tone as nonchalant as possible. "I was just relieved, that's all. I was so frightened she was going to curse me. And I was a little angry. Sometimes I get emotional when I'm angry."

"You talked Pansy Parkinson out of a jealous rage." His eyes were amused now. "Why did you bother? You would have won in a fight."

"That's not much use for house unity," she admonished.

He snickered, letting go of her chin. With distance re-established between them, she felt less light-headed, less adrift; some of her came back to herself. "You're really determined about that."

"You have to admit that it's a shame," she retorted, "that all the other houses get along with one another, perfectly friendly, but you're all stuck with one another for seven years, no contact with anyone else. You would all be better off with some more variety."

He shrugged as they began to climb the stairs again. "Most of us like it. Keeps out anyone who thinks differently, you know. There's no threat to our beliefs."

"People don't evolve that way. Competition is healthy."

He glanced sideways at her, amused for some reason. "I wonder what she'll buy me. I do hope it's something interesting."

"You should get her something." Hermione looked the other way, feeling annoyed rather than depressed about it now. She wasn't stunning or anything, but she was certainly easier on the eyes than Parkinson.

"I suppose. Nothing too sentimental. Wouldn't want her to think I'm interested."

Her head whipped back around. "What?"

He shrugged again. "She can be a bit...daft."

Hermione groaned. "She'll kill me. She'll come after me on Christmas and kill me when you don't go running into her arms. It's a good thing I'm skiing with my parents, she'll never find me—"

"'Unforeseen events'?" he quoted her, the hint of a smile, not a smirk, turning up the corner of his mouth.

"No," she answered, as they turned down the corridor to their portrait. "I haven't told my parents yet, but I think it's best if I keep my distance from Ron over the holidays. He's still stewing."

"I can offer an alternative. You seem so adverse to...skiing." He said the word as though it belonged to a foreign language.

She rolled her eyes. "What, stay here by myself? That'd be a lovely Christmas—"

"Anticipation." The portrait swung forward. "You've been invited to the Manor for the holidays."

She stopped dead and stared at him. With an impatient huff, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the hole in the wall. She continued to stare, wide-eyed. "The Manor?" she squeaked. "_Malfoy _Manor?"

"No, some other Manor that I don't live at," he said impatiently, rolling his eyes.

"Your mother..." Her voice cracked through two octaves. "She'll...she'll..."

"She requested it. And what she'll do if you refuse is far worse than if you just accept." He towed her toward the couch, summoned butterbeer, and pushed the foaming mug into her hand. "Don't go into shock over this. Drink."

She obeyed. The warming effect was soothing. "Look," he said, every note in his voice offended but struggling to be patient. "You hate skiing. You want time away from Weasley. My mother may criticize you, but she's no worse than me—honestly, she's probably more tolerable. You'd love the grounds...and the library."

"If there's one place Parkinson will _definitely _find me, it's at _your Manor_, seeing as she already thinks there's something going on between us—"

"Not likely. Her mother has forbidden her to have any sort of contact with the Malfoys—we're not exactly in good standing these days. And over the holidays, she'll be under her mother's thumb. She won't be able to come after you there."

Hermione paused, sipping her butterbeer. "Your mother...requested it?" she asked, her voice a little less shrill.

"Yes. It's only polite."

"Polite?" Her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.

He returned her look with an exasperated one. "Socially," he explained. "You've been elevated to a position as my equal. My mother has a social conscious, and she exercises it judiciously. It would be rude not to extend the invitation, with us interacting so frequently." He gave her a pointed look and she hastily sipped more of the butterbeer. "We'll make sure that Potter and Weasley don't find out," he added. "I'm sure one of them would die of shock."

She choked out a little laugh. "Yes. They would."

"If you don't want to..."

"No," she said quickly. "No, it would be lovely." Again that pointed look. "Oh, I'm trying to be optimistic!" she cried desperately. "I wouldn't mind. I'm just afraid your mother will torment me, that's all."

His lips wore a thin smile. "It's unlikely. That would be extremely rude." She laughed, the sound a little wild. She felt trembly, ill. "We would typically host a bit of a ball," he continued, "but I'm not sure what she's planning this year. We're certainly not in good graces any more, so it will probably be a quiet Christmas."

She nodded, still feeling weak. "I think I'll be calmer about it in the morning. It's a bit of a shock, you know. After all the animosity, the past six years."

He looked like he didn't believe her, but agreed anyway. "It's been a late night. Try not to worry."

Her eyes flicked to his in answer, still filled with that exact emotion, but she nodded again, getting to her feet. He took the empty mug from her hands, but didn't move from the couch. "Good night," she said, picking up her wand before opening the door to her staircase.

"Good night," he answered. Had she looked back, she might have glimpsed the triumphant smile plastered on his face.


	20. too little, too late

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY

_too little, too late_

Hermione woke in the middle of the night that week to a glowing at her bedside. She immediately reached for her wand, but then relaxed; it was a Patronus, a Jack Russell terrier, and she knew who it belonged to. Its mouth opened, and spoke in Ron's voice. "Come outside." The silver being evaporated.

With a huff, she picked up her wand, muttering to herself. Her hand batted uselessly at her hair as she tumbled down the stairs and out the portrait, looking around suspiciously for any sign of him. The corridor was striped with moonlight, and silent. She moved down it toward Gryffindor's common room, and caught sight of him immediately. Furious, she marched toward him.

"For Merlin's sake, Ron, it's the middle of the night—"

"Just come to the Burrow for Christmas, Hermione. Please."

For what felt like the hundredth time, Hermione shook her head, and rehearsed the lie. "You woke me up in the middle of the night for this? My parents are really looking forward to Christmas, Ron. They would be disappointed."

"That's not why you're doing it." He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her. They were dressed almost exactly alike, with the same pyjama bottoms in flannel and Gryffindor colours, but his shirt was maroon, and hers was white.

She hesitated. "It seems like a good idea, to put space between us for a bit. You're stewing. You'll relax over the holidays without me there. You'll be able to rant if you want. Harry and Ginny will agree with everything you say. Your mum and dad, too." She smiled, even though tears were prickling at her eyes again. Damn. They were always there, lately. Lingering.

"This isn't what I want."

"What you want is impossible," she reminded him. "I wish I could just abandon this, Ron, but you know me better than that. I can't just hand in my badge—McGonagall would never allow it. Things aren't the same. I know. You don't like it. I know. I'm trying. I can't do any more about it."

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice serious, as he looked into her face.

She blinked. "About what?"

"About making fun of you when we were first years. About hating you because your cat killed Scabbers. About acting like a prick at the Yule Ball." His words came faster, thicker with every sentence. "About...Lavender...when I told you I'd go to Slughorn's party with you. I really wanted to come with you, Hermione." He took a step toward her.

_No_, she wanted to scream. _Why did you wait? Why did you wait so long?_

"It's fine," she said, her voice shaky.

"I'm horrible. I know that. I'm bloody unbearable."

"Don't. Please. Don't do this."

His hands touched her cheeks, tipping her face up to his. She looked into his blue eyes, and tried to feel what she used to feel for Ron Weasley, but was full of thoughts of silver instead. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and his lips pressed to hers.

He was gentle, his kiss sweet and sincere. _Feel something_, she roared at herself. _Feel anything._ But all she felt were memories, memories of Draco Malfoy's hands closing around her wrists, memories of a brief hug, memories of ice on her forehead...with as much gentleness as she could muster, she pulled away from him.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I did love you, Ron. For so long...but..."

"I've been a git."

"Yes."

"There's no hope."

"Hardly any." She felt light-headed and dizzy from the quipping exchange, meant to be humorous, to lighten the mood—it fell flat.

His arms were suddenly hugging her, hard, and she blinked, clearing tears from her eyes. "The holidays will be good, then," his voice said, forcefully, as though trying to convince himself.

"You're still my best friend," she whispered.

She felt his nod, and he released her. After a long look into her eyes, he nodded again, his face furrowed with sadness, and turned down the Fat Lady's corridor.

She didn't recall walking back to her common room, but was suddenly aware of her surroundings when a smooth voice, crumpled with sleep, sounded from behind her, slowly colouring with alarm. "Granger—oi. What's happened? Are you all right?"

She must have looked horrible, for him to sound so concerned. She realized, vaguely, that her knees were drawn up to her chest on his side of the couch; she had been staring blankly into the fire for some time. She felt his weight shift the sofa next to her. Uncertainly, he touched her shoulder. "Hermione. Say something."

And then she was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks, sobs ripping from her chest; it felt as though her heart were being mangled within her. She flinched at his touch, the slow and hesitant way his arm pulled her against his shoulder. Her whole body shook. _Too late_, the miserable thought whispered. _Couldn't you have done it a few months ago, Ron? Or a year ago? Maybe then I wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe neither of us would have to hurt like this._

"You have to give me something," his voice told her, sounding desperate. "Is this serious?"

She lifted her head, her eyes looking into his, and stalled a sob with a shudder. "Just...just look," she choked out, and felt him slip into her mind immediately, as though he'd been waiting for the invitation.

It wasn't calm, because she wasn't in control, but his presence soothed down the waves until he could make out what had initiated the crying rag. "Weasley," he muttered, as she held in yet another sob that threatened to overtake her, but with the name her mind was off, _bang bang bang_, hands grabbing wrists and thoughts filled with silver and those blue eyes leaning into her with _I'm sorry_ etched in them—

It all roiled as he withdrew, and as the connection broke, the crying swept her up again, her forehead pressed against his shoulder as his arms tightened around her. He was saying something but she could make no sense of it; her heart was too swollen, releasing poison into her bloodstream. Silver. Her eyes closed and the tears didn't stop, but all she saw was silver.

Eventually, the onslaught calmed. Frightened and disoriented, she made to pull out of his embrace, but his arms simply kept her there. She didn't resist, for the moment. "I'm sorry," she said, thickly. "I got your shirt wet."

A laugh was startled from his lips—not a snicker, but a chuckle, one strained slightly with concern. "That sounds better," his voice said, somewhere above her. She let her eyes close, drifting into the suddenly peaceful black. "It's very like you to be concerned about my shirt when you've just cried for twenty minutes straight."

"I'm sorry I woke you," she whispered. "Was I making noise? I don't remember."

"I heard the fire in the grate. I was just drifting off." One hand lifted to stroke her hair, thick and messy from sleep, as though trying to soothe her. His voice was warped and strange when he spoke next. "How does it feel?"

She sniffed. "What?"

"Loving someone like that for so long, and them never noticing. Never reciprocating." Bitter. Was that what was in his tone? _Bitterness_?

"This is worse," she answered, her voice still thick with tears. "Hurting him is worse than him hurting me."

"No sense of self-preservation at all," he murmured darkly. She tried to pull away again, but his arms resisted her efforts. "Relax. Breathe deeply. You're on the verge of an anxiety attack."

She didn't agree with him, but she followed orders as best she could. How could she relax, when the silver in her thoughts was suddenly holding her in his arms? How could she breathe deeply, when the subtle pine scent about him filled her sinuses, cutting through the tears? Confusion tumbled over itself in her head and in her heart—one struggling to break away, one dying to move closer. To wrap her arms more securely around his chest, to breathe in not just his shirt but his skin.

Nevertheless, her breathing slowed. Her heartbeat calmed. Before she could make another effort to pull away, the black of deep sleep lifted up and swept over her, pulling her under.

…

She wasn't in her bed, because the material beneath her wasn't a sheet. It felt coarse, a little rough, like cloth. Something heavy was around her and beside her. Comfortable. She felt comfortable. Warm. The heavy something was warm, too. There wasn't a pillow beneath her head, but something else—something that moved slowly and rhythmically. It seemed to be breathing. She breathed, too. The subtle scent of pine bit at her sinuses. With a sigh, she forced her eyes open.

The warm wrapped around her, cradling her to the soft spot between his shoulder and his chest, was Draco Malfoy.

He was asleep, judging by the measured, even breaths he took, though not snoring—for the moment. She didn't dare look up into his face, terrified to wake him, terrified that he would snarl and flinch away from her. She struggled to orient herself, to remember her last conscious thoughts. She had fallen asleep first, and they had still been upright, then. Had he pulled her down to the couch with him?

_Preposterous._

It was late in the night, the fire had burned down, and he was holding her. He wasn't rigid lines of steel cable, like she had somehow expected for months now. Perhaps because he was asleep, or perhaps because he was human, he felt soft, relaxed, but somehow still so solid—so pleasant—with that arm wrapped around her. She bit her lip, trying to find a way out. She was sandwiched between him and the back of the couch, her body curled to his side; it would be impossible to extricate herself without waking him. She didn't want to risk the reaction.

Carefully, she curled into him. In his sleep, his arm tightened around her shoulders, pulling her nearer. Her lips were centimetres from his neck. Her heart pounded as she leaned in the last bit to press a soft kiss to his skin. His head turned towards her in his sleep. Her heart throbbed, rising into her throat. She let her head rest in the soft crook of his shoulder, let her eyes close, and despite her nerves, despite her fear, despite the puffy feeling around her eyes and what had happened with Ron, she smiled into Draco's shirt.

…

He woke when his eyelids could no longer ignore the sunlight filling the room from the high windows. It was burning into his eyelids, making them go red on the inside. He gave a soft groan and began to stretch, but then felt the small, solid something pressed against his right side, and stopped. Surprised, his eyes flickered open.

She was still pressed against him, moulded to him, one arm thrown out across his rib cage, fingers curled loosely around the edge of his body. Her head was nestled perfectly between his chest and shoulder, as though she hadn't moved since he had pulled her down to lay there with him the night before. She had been half asleep, or perhaps fully asleep, as her body willingly followed the contours of his.

In spite of himself—in spite of trying very hard to prevent events like this—he smiled, and stared up at the ceiling.

His resolve seemed to weaken every time she looked at him. His resolve to stay away from her—to do just that much right—was useless when she smiled or fumed. He couldn't ignore her because it was hell to upset her, but it was impossible to be friends with her without being tempted into situations like these: just seeing how it would feel, sleeping with her in his arms. Even now, she sighed softly in her sleep, and curled somehow closer to him, her head burrowing into his chest. It seemed like a game of who would break first—who would admit aloud what was happening—and she was winning. He had been in her mind, and he had glimpsed enough to know exactly why she had given up on Weasley.

He wasn't surprised; there wasn't a girl in the school who wasn't attracted to him, even if they _did _loathe him. She felt something deeper than that, though. It wasn't just some animal lust. She enjoyed his company. She _liked _him, maybe more than anyone else ever had, except for his mother. Her thoughts were full of him, full of her impatience with him and her frustration with him and her confusion about him, and then her helpless subjection to the way her heart was towing her, despite all of that.

She believed he didn't return the sentiment; that explained her torrential pain the night before. She believed, still, that he cared very little for her, and that nothing to her benefit could come of feeling for him like this.

_Well, you're right about that much_, he thought grimly. _Mum's going to have a house-elf when she catches on_.

But despite all that, he wanted her. He wanted to _really _win her over, to get her all shivery and vulnerable before him. It was a drive for possession, that was all—a drive to have her, the girl that would be the hardest to get, the girl who had spent the last six years as his complete adversary. He would ignore the tenderer, unfamiliar feelings kicking around in his chest for now; he had no idea what to do with those. For now, he could focus on the conquest. Consequences be damned. It was not unlike Draco Malfoy to put his own needs and wants before anything else, and he would succumb to them now.

With a yawn, she suddenly reeled forth into consciousness. He felt her eyelashes flutter, and a heated sensation filled him; he struggled to bite it back.

She looked up just as he looked down. Her face was frightened as he raised his eyebrows at her. "I think we may have missed Arithmancy," he said, his voice severe.

A tentative smile bruised her lips. Still trying out the muscles, he smiled back, holding the smirk down. "I doubt anything was planned," she ventured. "It's only a few days before the holiday."

"Yes," he agreed. "I merely thought that you would be strongly disappointed in yourself for setting a bad example."

Her shoulders moved in a shrug under his arm. "It's done now, isn't it?" She made a move to escape from his hold, but he tightened his grip. A small sound rose in her throat, a squeak of surprise.

"Why did you love him if he hurt you so much?" he asked her, the question casual, though it clearly was not.

She shook her head. "When you love someone, you see past how much they hurt you. You just see how much they could help you, if they returned the feeling." She sighed. "But he waited too long. '_Too little, too late_'," she quoted, and when he looked puzzled, added, "It's a Muggle saying. Too little effort expended much too late."

"You could still be happy with him."

"You could still be happy with Pansy, too, but you won't do it." Her eyebrows raised, lips twisting in amusement. "Funny, the way love works." Her eyes flashed in something like momentary triumph.

She _knew_. The little sneak. But then, he _had _given himself away, because hours before, she hadn't known. What self-respecting Slytherin would allow himself to be found like this, curled up with the Gryffindor lioness herself, holding her—comforting her? Yes, she couldn't help but realize. She _was _the cleverest witch of their age. He, a Slytherin, wouldn't do that—unless he wanted her. Maybe if they all knew how supple and soft her body felt in his arms, maybe if they could appreciate her wild tangle of hair...He pulled himself from the couch, and held out a hand to help her up, which she graciously accepted, a happy smirk playing around her pink lips. It was criminal, the fact that she could even smirk at all. Perhaps he was rubbing off on her.

But _love_? Was she really deluding herself? He scoffed inwardly; what a pathetic concept. Well, he would let her think that, if she wished. For now.

"McGonagall _will _notice if we miss Transfiguration," he pointed out, releasing her hand.

"Yes," she agreed, still smirking. Without warning, she leaned up and pressed those soft lips to his cheek. "Thank you," she murmured in his ear, and then she was vanishing into the staircase to her bedroom while he remained frozen in shock by the couch. Oh, yes. Yes, she knew. And she was goading him; she was cheerfully tormenting him into making a move. He couldn't help but grin in appreciation as his hand ran through his hair. He really _was _rubbing off on her, and her subtle manipulations were doing away with the rest of his reasoning.

He wanted to knock down her door, to take her in that moment—but it was much too soon. He couldn't let her have her way _that _easily. He would have to hold out...he would have to retaliate with torture of his own.

The grin stayed on his lips as he climbed to his bedroom to get ready for class. The holidays were looking better by the moment.


	21. first impressions

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-ONE

_first impressions_

"Stop fidgeting. It will be fine."

They had chosen a compartment near the back of the train, where Harry and Ron were unlikely to pass by. Crookshanks mewled unhappily in his wicker basket. "You don't know that," Hermione shot back, nervously wringing her hands in her lap.

Draco's long fingers reached out to still her. "Yes, I do. Relax. She'll be impressed with your choice of dress. That will keep her at bay for at least an hour." A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. Hermione frowned, a wave of self-consciousness sweeping her. He had dug through her closet for a solid half an hour before locating the black dress she was currently wearing and insisting that it would be perfect for stepping off the train to meet his mother. It was a simple affair, really: silken black material, with a scoop neckline that gathered in the front, then clung to her torso before flaring out slightly at her waist in small ruffles. The hem was trimmed in silver thread, and it fell to her knees. Draco had laughed when he'd heard her putting a warming spell on her stockings, but being cold was worse than being embarrassed, she maintained. A pearl necklace and matching earrings, given to her for her seventeenth birthday by her mother, along with black ballet flats—trimmed in silver, like the dress—completed the ensemble. Her hair was tamed and half-pulled-back, a few of the shorter strands framing her face. She covered the whole thing with a thick black coat made of a warm, coarse material; for the moment, she had discarded her bright red scarf and mittens.

The closer they got to King's Cross Station, the more nauseous she felt. And at this point, they were very close indeed. Where had the day gone? she wondered hopelessly. Where had the simple hours of conversation and exchanging looks with Draco vanished to? The looks he gave her were curious, now: sometimes smouldering, though not angry; sometimes gentle, a brief tenderness flashing in his eyes; sometimes delighted, pleased with the hint of sarcasm, a borderline smirk, as though she had done something that amused him. None of them lasted long, but they were there, and that was enough.

Since spending the night in his arms that week—since brazenly and recklessly pressing a kiss to his cheek and smirking at him—she had suffered from continuous indecision. On the one hand, she felt a new part of herself struggling to emerge and, for the sake of being courageous, she occasionally gave the new Hermione reign. The newcomer to her personality was _bold_, delicately put. This Hermione continued dropping subtle hints by way of body language, coy looks, subtle touches. There were excuses to innocently widen her eyes at him while she smirked, to brush her fingertips against his hands as she reached past him for ink wells or textbooks, to angle herself toward him, giving him her attention. _I'm in it this deep_, she thought, as she had been thinking all week. His fingers again brushed apart her fidgeting hands, barely touching her knee in the small movement.

The odd thing was, it wasn't making her feel _worse _about her situation. Perhaps it was because he was _flirting—_if it could be called that—right back at her. He would squeeze her shoulder to say good night, making sure his fingertips grazed the delicate skin of her collarbone; he cast her fleeting, sultry looks from across the Great Hall that made her muscles tremble; if stopped for a word in the corridor, he would be sure to whisper as close to her ear as possible, his soft voice sending tingles down her spine. The pain in her chest was easing, as though her heart had stopped swelling and begun to reduce to normal size again. He was plainly not interested in Pansy, and he knew that she had rejected Ron. They didn't speak of it aloud, but she knew that his sights were set on something else, now—her.

Why else would he have pulled her down to his chest and kept his arm curled around her, pressing her body against his, for that entire night? Why else was he smirking at her now, with that smouldering glint in his eyes again—as though he were contemplating shagging her?

A light shiver racked her. She knew better than to think that any relationship with him would begin with gentle words and soft promises, though the old Hermione—the clever, innocent, cautious Hermione, before Granger 2.0 was released—held out hope for _some _normalcy to be preserved in a relationship with him. This Hermione was not bold, she was anxious, and she could tell that her flickering indecision was annoying Draco. He seemed to like the coy version of her, the one that liked playing his games. When she descended back into her harder, nervous, easily angered, perpetually worried state, he didn't seem disappointed, exactly; she couldn't figure out exactly what it was he felt about her then.

She knew that if Draco Malfoy wanted her, it wouldn't be a relationship similar to hers with Victor Krum by any stretch of the imagination. It wouldn't be like what she could have had with Ron. It would be something much rougher, wilder, and more forbidden. The new part of her liked the idea. The old part of her was just a little frightened. She suppressed a smile, but it quickly turned to a worried frown. It was not a very Gryffindor-like thing to do.

She was Hermione to the outside world, devoted student, Head Girl, regular know-it-all, but behind closed doors and in patches of shadows there were new things to explore—if only she could make her nervously chattering intellect shut up long enough to try something new. She wanted to do something stupid, on purpose, spontaneously—just once, to see how she liked it.

So far, she liked it so much it scared her. And that _scared _part barely shut up for two minutes at a time.

The train was beginning to slow; Draco got to his feet to pull their trunks from the luggage racks, but she yanked him back down. "Not yet. Wait until the platform clears a bit," she pleaded. He rolled his eyes and slumped against the seat. "I know it's ridiculous, I know. I wish..."

"...you could trust them? Yeah, what a merry world it would be," he snorted as the train came to a complete halt. There was a sound like distant thunder as their fellow students poured off the Hogwarts Express. "Unfortunately, that seems unlikely."

She sighed, and they subsided into silence. Her heart was beginning to pick up speed; she could practically feel her blood pressure rising. She had, in her lifetime, slipped past a three-headed dog, been Petrified by a basilisk, ridden a hippogriff, and fought Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, but none of those terrors really compared to the horror she felt now. Draco Malfoy's _mother _was somewhere out there on the platform—waiting to meet _her_. They had not yet even glimpsed one another, and the anticipation had already made short work of her nerves.

After five minutes, he checked his watch. "That should be enough time. Come on." He lifted her trunk down for her, and then pulled down his own. She slid her arm through Crookshanks's wicker basket, ignoring the cat's plaintive mewing, and followed him out of the compartment, both of them jumping down onto the platform. It was still crowded, but there was no red hair in sight. "Mum should be around here somewhere..." His silvery eyes searched the crowd; his height, well over six feet, allowed him to do this with ease. "Ah. I've spotted her."

Hermione's heart felt as though it had swollen and risen up to choke her throat. It pulsed furiously. She stayed close at his side as they moved forward, parting the crowd; the students reuniting with their families were far too occupied to be interested in the two of them. A shade of happiness coloured his tone when he spoke next. "Hello, Mum."

"Draco." Hermione had expected a cold greeting between the two. This was anything but cold. Draco leaned down and gathered the thin frame of his mother into his arms, hugging her tightly. "I hope you're well?" The words were formal, but the tone they were delivered in was not; this was not the Narcissa Malfoy that Hermione had glimpsed at the Quidditch World Cup or in Madam Malkin's the year prior. This was another woman—a woman she had not seen before.

Her blonde hair was long, and seemed to dance in thick strands around her shoulders and down her back. She must have been in her mid-forties, but didn't look it at all: her skin was a creamy pallor interrupted by only a few shallow wrinkles, her eyebrows thickly arched, posture ramrod straight, teeth almost unnaturally white as they flashed in a brief smile while her son hugged her. She was unquestionably elegant, tall—taller than Hermione, to be sure—well-dressed in an emerald-green coat that fell to her mid-thigh; there was a glimpse of black satiny material beneath the coat, perhaps her dress for the evening.

"Quite. Term has been fine." Hermione was startled from her observations by Draco's voice. A small smile twisted up the corner of his mouth as he released his mother. "How are you? You look pale."

The same small smile turned up the corner of her mouth. "I'm fine, Draco. You worry too much." Her eyes moved from her son's face—Hermione noticed that the shade of blue that she continually hunted out in the silver was there, plain as day, in Narcissa's eyes—and onto Hermione's. "You have yet to introduce me to your charming friend," she chided, the words directed at her son, though her gaze was still on Hermione. "Draco, Draco, where are your manners?" The soft way she said the words was laced with interest and the slightest hint of disapproval, though for her heritage or Draco's incompetence, Hermione couldn't be sure. She did note, her stomach sinking at the realization, that she recognized this woman now: the detached indifference and the muted displeasure returned to her features as she looked at Hermione.

"Of course. I'm being rude. This is Hermione Granger, the current Head Girl. Hermione, this is my mother, Narcissa Malfoy." His tone, though smooth and polite, was full of a certain wariness. His eyes turned on Hermione with a reassuring look in them.

"It's lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Malfoy." She barely recognized her voice as her own as she gave a small smile and offered her hand to shake Narcissa's. She didn't know what she would do if the gesture was not returned. "Thank you for inviting me to stay for the holidays. It's very kind of you."

Her blue eyes took the measure of the younger girl, features still stiff and indifferent, but she nodded and took Hermione's hand. "After hearing so much about you, it's lovely to finally meet you as well, Miss Granger." Her heart jumped to her throat. How much had Draco said about her? And what, exactly? "We should Disapparate; Craxus will have dinner nearly ready," she told her son as she released Hermione's hand.

The platform was thinning out. Draco nodded. "You can side-along with me, Hermione, so you don't end up lost," he said, with the hint of a smirk in his voice, and offered her his arm. She nodded politely, quite aware that Narcissa was watching her closely, and took his arm, laying her hand atop his own. He turned on his heel; she followed suit, allowing his direction to guide her. The feeling was still horridly uncomfortable. She preferred not to Apparate at all if she didn't have to, but she couldn't have expected the Malfoys to keep a car or anything so thoroughly ordinary. In a moment's time, however, they were standing in a long drive which led straight up to the door of what could only be called a Manor.

It seemed nearly a miniature of Hogwarts, castle-like in appearance, though somehow more stately than the old school. Hedgerows and gardens turned off from the long drive, and Hermione caught the glimpse of a white, feathery tail—an albino peacock, perhaps? Snow had already fallen here, coating the greenery and the dormant fountains with glistening heaps of white glitter. The drive alone was untouched. Hermione's eyes widened as she took in the bell tower perched atop the Manor, the many high windows and the wrought-iron gate behind them that stretched out of sight around the complex. They certainly had a great deal of land.

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," Draco murmured, gently prying her fingers off of his with a smirk.

"It's...beautiful," she breathed.

"You haven't even seen the inside yet." He chuckled and started forward, following Narcissa up the drive. Hermione walked briskly to keep up with him, each of them towing their trunks along with them.

"You should give her a tour after dinner, Draco," Narcissa called over her shoulder as she reached the front door. She did not spare a glance on Hermione. "For now, show her to her room and let her freshen up. Craxus will be anxious."

"Who's Craxus?" Hermione murmured, as they turned up the staircase on the right and Narcissa vanished through another door in the entrance hall. Draco magicked their trunks into the air for greater ease.

"Head house-elf. Mother's come to rather like him since father went to Azkaban. I think he keeps her company." He shrugged. "And she tends to treat him rather well, so he's quite fond of her." They reached the top of the stairway. A long carpet, mostly dark green but edged in gold and silver, covered the otherwise bare hardwood floor, down the hallways and down the stairs behind them. The hallway was very long, with only a few doors. Draco turned to the last door on the left and pushed his trunk inside before closing it again. "It's boring," he answered in response to her mystified look. "This, on the other hand, is your room, and I'm sure mother's had a grand time fixing it up for you." He turned the knob of the door across the hall, pushed it open, and led the way inside.

She stopped in the doorway, her hands pressed over her mouth to hold in a gasp.

The ceilings were of cathedral proportions. To her left, there was a massive four-poster bed, king-sized at the least, the wood in a soft golden colour—she guessed it was oak of some kind—that glowed faintly. A delicate, gauzy, lightly peach canopy draped over it, concealing the richly apricot-coloured comforter from view. The dresser, night stand, and wardrobe were all in the same wood, the handles trimmed in gold. A vanity table in the same golden colour and topped with a hovering oval mirror was perched to the left of the enormous window, which opened to a view of the garden below—or a bit of the garden, Hermione thought numbly, as she finally stepped over the threshold of the door and moved forward to peer out. Moonlight covered the whole glittering affair—hedges, fountains, statues—with a soft, beautiful light. Her fingertips grazed the vanity, feeling with shock and delight the smooth, soft nature of the wood. In a dreamlike trance, she turned. The opening to the bathroom was through an archway straight in front of her. She walked—no, floated—through the doorway.

A mirror dominated the wall before her, stretching across the sink, which held several deep basins all furnished with golden taps. Narcissa's touch was here, too—the towels were the same shade as the comforter, a combination of light orange and rosy pink. Her trembling fingertips touched the fabric; it was lusciously soft. Opposite the sinks there was an enormous bath, sunk into the floor, lined with taps all the way around. She was irresistibly reminded of the Prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts, but the taps here seemed much more delicate, and carved with little writings which she supposed labelled their scents. To the right of the sinks, there was a deep shower, lined on the bottom with stones similar to the ones in their dormitory. A changing screen—again wrought in colours of gold and peach—stood on this side of the room as well, a few articles of clothing hanging there casually, as though awaiting her.

She turned slowly. Draco was watching her with a mingled expression of anticipation and concern. "It's hard to tell what you're thinking," he grumbled.

"It's...amazing," she said faintly, bracing herself with a hand against the sink. "And far too much. She did this for me?"

He nodded. "She likes to make a good impression, and decorating is one of her favourite things. She's always wanted to design a room for a daughter, you know. Sons don't tend to care what things look like. So I'm not surprised that it's even grander than she promised. I also wouldn't be surprised if she was trying to overwhelm you a bit, so try not to look like you've been hit by a train when we go down to dinner. She'll take it as a sign of weakness."

"She's very talented," Hermione said, her voice still faint. "It's beautiful. I love it."

He was suddenly smiling. She realized that she'd rarely seen him so relaxed; was it because he was home? "I dare say she'll be pleased," he said. "I'll leave you to freshen up for dinner." With a parting smile, he left. She heard the door, so many paces from where she stood, close softly behind him.

With slow, trembling movements, she removed her scarf, her mittens, her coat, and found a coat rack she hadn't noticed before standing near the door into her bedroom. After placing them carefully on the stand, she went to the vanity table, noticing that Draco had left her trunk at the foot of her bed. "Somehow," she murmured to herself, "I have a feeling I won't be wearing _any _of those clothes while I'm here."

To confirm her suspicions, she took a seat and opened the first drawer in the vanity, the one which stretched across the table length-wise. A soft gasp escaped her lips. Neatly organized against the deep emerald velvet were a myriad of beauty products, all of them in the precise shades which were compatible with her skin, hair, eyes and lips. She closed the drawer with a snap, and opened the next, on the left. This first one was full of earrings, most of them quite delicate masterpieces, nearly all dotted with shimmering jewels. The next was neatly organized with bracelets, and she could tell that some would match the earrings in the previous drawer. The final opened on many rings, again of matching qualities. With a deep breath, she opened the swinging door that lined the drawers on the left; the long space dangled with beautiful necklaces, pearls, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, gold, silver...

Her hands shaking, she closed the door. The eyes in the mirror before her were both awed and frightened. It was then that she noticed a slip of parchment, tucked between the wood and the mirror. She reached forward to free it, and unfolded it. The script was elegant, small, and pleasing to the eye.

_Miss Granger—_

_I wish you to be as comfortable as possible during your stay. Please take advantage of the clothing and supplies I have left for you. I daresay you'll find them all to your liking._

_Narcissa Malfoy_

"She's nothing if not hospitable, eh?"

Hermione started; she hadn't heard Draco come in. He had removed his cloak, and was revealed to be wearing a crisp black suit, accentuated beneath by a dark blue shirt and a black tie that brought out the blue in his eyes. She felt her heart jump to her throat again; he was gorgeous. She struggled to clear her mind, to answer the question he'd posed. "I'm scared to look in the wardrobe, or the dresser," she confessed in a small voice, her eyes tearing from his. She felt a blush seep into her cheeks as she replaced the note on the vanity table. Her embarrassment at her own embarrassment deepened; she felt suddenly too warm with him occupying the room with her, and vastly incapable of thinking straight. Her next words were so cobbled together that she could barely make them out. "This is more grandeur than I've seen in my entire life, put together."

He chuckled. "You'll adjust. Come on, dinner will be ready by now."

"Should I..." She hesitated, her fingers flitting out to touch the note again, the embarrassment abating a bit as something like panic began to take hold. "Should I wear something she's chosen for me down to dinner? I don't want her to...take offence..."

"No, no. Save it for the morning. She thought your pearls looked lovely." She gave him a startled look. He shrugged. "Sometimes it's helpful to read minds. She likes to pass information to me that way at times, when it would be wrong to say them aloud."

"Master and miss."

Hermione stood hastily. An ancient house-elf stood in the doorway. "Dinner is served," he croaked. "Mistress Malfoy asks Craxus to fetch you."

"Thank you, Craxus, we'll be right along." The elf vanished. Draco grinned at her astonished look. She decided that she liked him so relaxed, so pleased; did Hogwarts really have such an embittering effect on his personality? "Yes, since my father's left, they all rather enjoy the place," he told Hermione in an undertone as they strolled into the hallway and toward a different set of stairs than they came up; these were not quite as grand. "My mum's become very sweet on them."

They emerged at the bottom into the warming light of a hundred candles, and Hermione, with increasing pleasure, happy to forget that his presence at her side was making her heart flutter irregularly, took in the scene around her.


	22. a proposal

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-TWO

_a proposal_

"It's _lovely_."

The candles were strategically placed around the dining room, hovering above the table, above the mantle of the fireplace, and around the walls to cast the whole place in an ivory glow. The light warmed the dark reddish-brown colouring of the dining table and the grand tapestries lining the walls. A cackling fire spread more warmth outward; it was a distinct relief after the drafts in the staircase. Narcissa's chuckle was much like her son's, though higher, more feminine. She was already seated at the head of the table; Draco pulled out the chair to her left and offered it to Hermione, who sat as graciously as she could. "I'm glad you approve," the matriarch said, though cool indifference still coloured her tone. "How do you like your quarters? I suppose ten minutes was barely sufficient time to explore them."

"Yes," Hermione said, her voice breathless; she couldn't help the smile that overcame her features, the enthusiasm, the pleasure, though Draco cast her a look that plainly said _what did I tell you about sounding overwhelmed? _"What I've managed to see of it is quite beautiful. You are too kind."

"Don't attribute it to her kindness," he warned in a joking voice as he pulled out the seat across from Hermione. "She's been dying to shower clothes and jewels on someone who will appreciate them for years. Sons are boring to clothe, aren't they, mother?"

"They do tend to whine about nearly everything," Narcissa agreed darkly, though she gave her son a soft smile. "Craxus!" she called, and a small door on the side of the fireplace opened. Three house-elves entered, each laden with a single platter. Hermione noticed that goblets of water stood for each of them beside their silverware. Craxus slid his platter before Narcissa, while the other two serviced Draco and Hermione. Each whisked the lid off of the plate before retreating to the kitchen.

"Roast lamb with mint sauce," Draco answered Hermione's unasked question. "It's quite good."

"Let the girl judge for herself, Draco," Narcissa murmured reprovingly, picking up her own knife and fork delicately.

The taste was both fresh and savoury, the combination of mint with lamb exquisite. There was quiet for a moment as they all began eating. "It _is _quite good," Hermione seconded with a pleased smile. "You have a very talented chef."

"Yes, Craxus does very well with food," Narcissa agreed as Hermione took a bite of the creamy potatoes, even cheesier than those she had eaten at the Slytherin table. "He is an exceptional house-elf." Hermione nodded politely. "Draco has told me you have quite an interest in house-elves," she added, her voice dismissive—but somewhat tinged with curiosity.

Hermione resisted the urge to kick him under the table. His smirk was barely detectable. He had thrown her to the sharks, and he was about to enjoy the sight of her blood in the water. Maybe he hated her after all. "Yes," she admitted. "One of my best friends is on quite good terms with Dobby, you see."

"Ah, Dobby." A mangled look of pity and revulsion, seconded by irritation, crossed her features before they smoothed again.

"He works at Hogwarts now," she continued. "The school pays him, a little. He's quite happy, I'd say, being a free elf. So I've been campaigning for elf rights since fourth year."

The blue eyes widened slightly. "Elf rights?" she repeated, as though doubtful about whether or not her ears were working correctly, and disturbed to find that they were.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, though she heard the strain in her own voice. "Making sure they aren't abused, you know, that they aren't—taken advantage of—giving them holidays here and there. They don't want to be free, most of them," she admitted reluctantly, "but giving the opportunity to those who do, and treating the rest like...like equals. Not inferiors. Or like an employer-employee relationship, rather than a master-slave relationship." She felt a blush beginning to creep into her cheeks as Narcissa continued to stare at her.

"We live in changing times," she acquiesced, her voice colder than before. Hermione shot an agonized look at Draco when Narcissa bent over her food, but he merely gave a small smile and shrugged. A few moments passed in a silence of chewing—Hermione gratefully distracted by the delicious nature of the meal—until Narcissa spoke again. "Forgive me if this is rude, but what do your parents do in the Muggle world?" Again, the indifference, the coldness, edged with an unwilling curiosity.

"Oh." Hermione swallowed. "They're both dentists." This was received with blank looks from both mother and son. "They tend to people's teeth," she explained. "Clean them and fill their cavities, you know. And if your teeth aren't quite straight or don't fit in your mouth right, they use these things called braces to fix them. I _would _have had them," she added, and Draco frowned, as though sensing what she was about to say, "if it hadn't been for Draco."

Narcissa's eyes swivelled back to her son. "Why is that, Draco?"

"It's not terribly interesting," he muttered.

"Do tell, Miss Granger," she invited, watching Draco's sulkiness with an intrigued, and amused, air.

"Fourth year," she began—_reckless_, a voice chanted at her, but the new Hermione had taken the wheel and shook off the thought without a backward glance. "We were all queued up waiting for Potions to begin, and Draco got in a bit of a disagreement with Harry Potter, as they're bound to do." Narcissa's mouth thinned at the mention, and Hermione hurried on. "So they tried to curse one another, but their spells bounced off, and Draco's ended up hitting me in the face. My teeth grew past my _collar_." She remembered the incident with a touch of horror. "So when I went to Madam Pomfrey and let her shrink them, I just let her carry on a bit so that they would fit right like they hadn't before—they had been so big. Otherwise I'd have been stuck with horrible bits of metal in my mouth for years." She took another bite of her dinner, somehow quite enjoying this moment. If she wasn't much mistaken, Draco was planning revenge for this. "He thought it was quite amusing, of course."

"Of course," he said sullenly. "I was a child."

Narcissa gave him an appraising look. "All the same, Draco, that was very improper," she admonished. "You knew better."

"I didn't mean to get _her_," he said, a little impatiently. "I _was _aiming for Potter."

"You say it as if that's so much more acceptable," his mother reprimanded, "but Potter has, and always will be, one of the most important wizards in this world. You should treat him with respect—or at least not hex him at every opportunity."

_Always will be_. Hermione resisted the urge to stare, open-mouthed, at Narcissa; she tried not to even let her brow furrow as she picked up on the implications in the older witch's words. What was she suggesting? That Voldemort would never return, or that when he did, he would fail? Had she given up their cause entirely? Why, then, did this cool air linger about her? Was it just years and years of habit failing to step aside?

"Did I ever mention the time Hermione introduced me to Muggle duelling?" Draco questioned, brushing off this statement.

Hermione blushed. "Oh, no. Let's not talk about that."

"Yes, I was harping on about the hippogriff and Hagrid and how they were going to lose the trial, because the thing slashed my arm open, remember—"

"Only because you didn't _listen_ to Hagrid!" she cried. "He _told _us that they're easily offended, and you just marched right up to Buckbeak, you _deserved _it—"

"—and I thought she was going to curse me, but instead she just slapped me—right across the face. I've never seen her so angry since." He smirked at the pink fury standing out on her cheekbones. "Have you noticed, mother? Hermione tends to be a champion of the weak and downtrodden."

Though her face was burning, she struggled to harness her anger. "It was a bit of a rough year for me," she said in a calm, controlled voice. "I was under a lot of stress. And you were being unnecessarily cruel."

"The great brute slashed my arm open, I was a bit put out, wasn't I? You would harbour prejudice toward that thing if it attacked _you_, how he escaped, I wish I knew—"

Hermione's stomach lurched. She knew exactly how he had escaped, with the help of herself, a Time Turner, Harry Potter, and a convict on the run named Sirius Black. "He never attacked _me_," she said, resentfully. "_I _was polite."

Narcissa's laugh, a sound like cool wind chimes, turned both their heads; Hermione had forgotten that the older witch was there, and the blush on her cheeks darkened. "Yes, Draco," she admonished, a smirk twisting the corner of her lips, "where _were _your manners?"

Hermione, startled, let out a quiet laugh as Draco flushed, and realized that her food was mostly gone. She finished off her potatoes with a last bite, and set her fork down gently, the prongs just resting on the plate. "I'm sure you'd like to see the rest of the Manor," Narcissa said to Hermione, who nodded politely. "Draco will show you around. Craxus!" The house-elf bustled in with a bottle of wine and three goblets, which he distributed with ease. "I will retire to my room for the evening," she continued, lifting her own goblet as she rose to her feet. Hermione stood automatically, copying Draco's movement, and Narcissa smiled thinly before turning to kiss her son on the cheek. She then swept from the room, the black silk of her dress rustling in her wake.

She gulped in relief and reached for her goblet to take a sip. The wine was white. Draco was smirking. "You look as though you've just battled ten Death Eaters."

"I'm just glad she didn't make any signs of _outward _displeasure," she murmured frantically. "Though you didn't exactly _help _me...what is this? It's good." The wine was fruity and light, quite unlike the nettle wine at Hogwarts.

"Reichensteiner, and I couldn't resist." He grinned smugly, hooking his goblet into his hand and coming around the table. "You're...fun...when you're furious."

He'd meant to say something else, she was certain, judging by the hesitation, by the look in his eyes as he took in the remainder of the blush on her cheeks. At his scrutiny, she blushed more deeply, her mind jumbled, scurrying for something to say. Thoughts of him filled her head, made her dizzy; how precisely she remembered the feeling of waking up in his arms!

"Come on," his voice said, his footsteps moving around her toward the door standing on the opposite side of the room from the kitchens. "Let me show you the Manor."

...

"Do you think she likes me at all?" Hermione asked as they wandered yet another hallway in the palace that was Malfoy Manor. It was going on ten o'clock, but she felt wide-awake, so keen on exploring the place that she couldn't imagine sleeping for another few hours. She was not typically attracted to grandeur, but the pull of the Manor was too strong to ignore.

"Malfoys don't usually _like _people, you know. I wouldn't be so worried if I were you—what do you need her approval for? She's confused about you keeping company with me, and something else...I can't quite place it...it's as though she's very secretly somewhat _pleased_." He frowned deeply. "About what, I haven't a clue, but knowing her, it'll be something very convoluted."

She laughed. Their goblets continuously refilled as they were emptied; Hermione sipped hers contentedly as they wandered through the house. A pleasant warmth was spreading outwards from her stomach as a result of the alcohol. She felt oddly relaxed, at ease—she supposed that that had been the intention. "Anyway. Are you ready for the next bit? Try not to spill," Draco warned. She nodded fervently. With a smirk, he pulled open the door at the end of the hall, and gave her a gentle push across the threshold.

It was good that he had warned her. All the same, she felt her fingers loosening around the goblet. Her mouth had dropped slightly open.

It was a library. A grandiose library with the light of the moon and stars pouring in from the high windows along the far wall. Towering bookcases seemed to rise to the cathedral ceiling. There was a second level, with wrought-iron staircases and pathways leading up and up all around her. There was a fireplace, and a multitude of comfortable armchairs and chaises. Her eyes were wide. "This is yours?" she whispered.

"Well, it will be. It's mum's for now. One of father's original gifts to her, when they were first engaged. She loves to read, you know. The two of you actually have a load in common." He swept forward, taking a seat in one of the armchairs nearest the fire. "Go ahead, look around. I don't doubt you'll be taking great advantage of this over the next few days." He smirked.

The volumes were thick. Some were in runes, others in Latin, still more in English. There were tomes of spells and leather-bound books of history, volumes that contained light and dark spells alike... "Yeah, it's an eclectic collection; my family has been steeped in the Dark Arts for years. But there were older generations..." He trailed off. He said _older _like it meant _better_, and he seemed displeased that it had come out sounding that way.

"It's incredible," she said softly. "There's so much _here_. How can you _have _all this?"

He gave a soft snicker. "My family has been building up this fortune for centuries, Hermione. How could we _not _have all this?"

She took another sip of her wine, as though hoping it would steady her, and perched herself on the arm of his chair. "It's unbelievable," she said bluntly. "How do you grow up in a place like this? It's like a fairytale. No wonder you always acted so spoiled. I couldn't have imagined _this_."

"Yes, well," he said, quietly. "It's enough to turn anyone's head, eh?"

"Oh, stop. Just because I'm _impressed_..."

"You really like it, though. I'd thought that you'd find it a massive waste of resources, or something." He smiled a small but smirk-free smile. "But you're actually enjoying it. It's surprising." She rolled her eyes and huffed before taking another sip of wine. "Anyway, I could do with a shower, and I'm sure you're dying to try out that bath." He smirked at her embarrassed look. "We should go sledding in the morning, there's a huge hill on the other side of the gardens. It'll be fun," he insisted, when her eyes turned on him with worry. "You'll love it."

"If you say so," she said, doubtfully. "If I crack my skull open again, I'm blaming you."

"I promise you won't get hurt." He seemed genuinely delighted at the prospect of sledding, and got up from his armchair. "C'mon. Don't want you getting lost."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course." She got up to follow him out the door. They walked in silence through the quiet house, hearing the clinking of house-elves doing the dishes in the far distance. It was a good five minutes before they reached their bedrooms.

"I'll see you in the morning." She nodded, and turned to open her door. "And, Hermione..." His voice hesitated, and she turned to look up at him. Her heart wrestled its way into her throat again. Tie loosened, jacket draped over his shoulder, hair in a casual disarray, he looked more handsome than ever. "Thank you for coming," he murmured, and then he was gone.

…

A few moments later, she sank into the deep bath with a pleasured sigh. The water was warm, the soap smelled of delicious vanilla, and she would have been quite happy to soak there forever in the hot water. Being away from Draco—and therefore not on edge every moment he spoke or came close to her—was relief in itself. Her goblet of wine was just out of reach of her fingertips at the bathtub's edge. She sank slightly deeper with a smile, allowing the ends of her hair to dampen. She thought she could thoroughly enjoy this forever. This was the kind of excellence that one never quite adjusted to.

After a good long soak and a thorough rinsing of her hair, she drained the bath, wrapping a towel around her before going to the changing screen. There was a lovely, peach-coloured silk robe hanging there that interested her—

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione turned on her heel, muscles tensed, but the voice belonged to Narcissa. "Mrs. Malfoy," she said, as calmly as she was able. She ducked behind the screen and pulled down the robe. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you—"

"Relax." The voice was regal, commanding. Her blonde hair fell thickly over her satin robe; even dressed in that thin material, she had an imperial composure. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to speak with you, while Draco is busy."

Hermione swallowed, drying herself hurriedly but thoroughly before clinching the robe tightly around her slender form. She came back around the edge of the changing screen, towelling her hair dry. There was nothing strictly unfriendly in Narcissa's tone, other than the expected indifference, but she was terrified that this was the event of torture she had been dreading for weeks. "Yes?" she questioned, politely.

"Are you in love with my son?"

Her brown eyes snapped up to Narcissa's blue ones. The gaze was still cold, with an edge of curiosity—not anger. "No," she answered, too firmly, too quickly. She winced at her own terrible acting.

Narcissa laughed, the sound dry, all wind chimes again. "Please, girl. Don't lie to me. I saw the way you look at him."

The blush steeped her cheeks before she could stop it. "We're friends," she said, her voice shaky. "We barely manage that. If I did...what would come of it? I'm Muggle-born. You have been so kind to me, but I'm afraid that sentiment wouldn't hold if I took a romantic interest in Draco."

"On the contrary," Narcissa mused darkly, "I owe you much." Hermione stared. "I know it was you who convinced him to accept the Order's protection. It was you who accepted him, despite knowing what he was, and didn't spread word of his activity with the Dark Lord when you discovered his one-time allegiance. You were kind to a family who had never treated you with anything but hatred and disrespect." Her eyes traced over Hermione's face, and her lips twisted in a smirk. "Once, I would have called you foolish, but _I _would be foolish not to accept such assistance in this climate."

Hermione's mind had gone blank with surprise and relief. "He...accepted the Order's protection?" she stammered.

Narcissa's tongue clucked. "He hasn't told you," she confirmed. "Leave it to my son to be unfailing secretive about our gratitude." She sighed, gently reached out to close her fingers on Hermione's wrist, and towed her to the next room, where she folded her legs beneath her on the bed. The younger woman followed suit. "Yes, he has spoken with the Order, and so have I," Narcissa continued. "Thank you." The words were hard, but genuine, as far as Hermione could tell. "For persuading him. I could not have hoped they would have accepted us."

"Why would you willingly seek the Order's protection?" Hermione could not help but be blunt. "You and your husband have been part of Voldemort's inner circle for decades." Narcissa cringed at the name.

"I would do anything to protect my son." There was a sudden ferocity in every line of her smooth face. "Someday, should you have children, you will understand."

Hermione could think of nothing to say, so she just nodded, letting her eyes fall to the comforter.

"Were it my decision," she continued delicately, and with slight distaste, "those children would be Malfoys."

Hermione's head snapped up again, her brown eyes staring, bewildered, into Narcissa's, which remained cold. "I'm flattered," she said, though her voice sounded a great deal more shocked than pleased. "But why...?"

"Yes. You are of inferior birth." Hermione flinched as Narcissa gazed unfeelingly past her. "It is the way this family has been for generations, casting your kind aside in pursuit of purity. But this world no longer supports that practice." Her voice was icy. "I have given my family into the protection of the Order—I will not reject a chance to save my son—and I must therefore hope for their eventual triumph over the Dark Lord. Should they succeed, the new world will be yours." She snorted, though delicately. "My old world will have vanished, but Malfoys adjust. We cannot simply be wiped from the social and political map. I won't allow it." She looked back to Hermione. Her gaze was hard. "If he tied himself to you, this family would no longer be pure in blood—but blood purity will no longer matter. We would be important in other, unforeseeable regards, forgiven for Lucius's transgressions, redeemed by the best friend of Harry Potter." She said the name with only a hint of malice, and much more resignation.

"I am..." Hermione struggled to find a response, still shocked by the bizarre twist this conversation had taken. _I'm dreaming_, a small part of her insisted, but that seemed to solidify the reality of this _un_reality. "I'm flattered...but...I'm sorry...this is so unexpected—"

"You would gain much. Vaults of gold turned over to your name, this Manor, these grounds, so many connections that can be re-established. You could have anything you wanted." Her lips expressed a thin smile, her eyes reflecting slight pain, as though cringing from the idea of Hermione as a daughter-in-law. "Or has he been too cruel to you to consider it?"

"No," Hermione assured quickly, and for all her coldness, there was a small light of triumph in those icy blue eyes. "But...you can't believe he would return the sentiment?" A bitter, slightly wild laugh escaped her lips. The stress of being alone in a room with this woman was unbelievable, especially given their topic of conversation. "Or do Malfoys never marry for love?"

"I have watched my son his entire life," she answered coolly. "He has treated Crabbe and Goyle with disgust, using them as tools to meet ends. He still disregards Pansy's attentions with indifference, thinking nothing of her own intellect or integrity. He obeyed his father with utmost civility. But he respects you, or he wouldn't allow you to argue with him. To challenge him. You have already drawn so much of his interest."

"I was under the impression that I'm a constant thorn in his side, actually. It would be...quite difficult...for us to pursue a _marriage_ with that attitude."

The blue eyes levelled with her. She swallowed, trying not to gulp. "If you were fond of simplicity, you would not be one of Harry Potter's greatest friends," she said. "If you enjoyed an easy life, you would not have tried to take every subject available at the age of thirteen, having to use a Time-Turner to do it—yes, I know about that. You undoubtedly underestimated Lucius's reach in the Ministry. It is not _simple _or _easy _to be a Malfoy wife, but in the right circumstances, it can be rewarding." She paused, her lips thinning again as she studied Hermione. "Undoubtedly, you are _often _a thorn in his side—your beliefs so oppose all those he has been raised with, it must be so—but, nonetheless, he treats you as an equal, if a rather annoying one. You always will be a bit irritating to him, but backbone in times like these is not necessarily a bad thing." Her eyes glinted. "Besides," she murmured, her voice full of heavy resignation, "he likes you."

Her heart stopped momentarily, and then sprinted forth again. "I'm sorry, but how can you _know _that?"

Her delicate laughter momentarily filled the air, though it was edged with bitterness. "I've seen a Malfoy fall in love before."

Hermione paused, and frowned. "You came from a pure-blood family. Surely that was an arranged match."

"Arrangements do not have to be loveless." Hermione, despite knowing the damage it was doing, continued to look sceptical. "It's perhaps not love as you know it, or love as you are comfortable with it, but then, Lucius and I were both in Slytherin. You are a Gryffindor, and four months in your company have already altered him—not much, but enough. Perhaps enough to satisfy your more romantic inclinations." The smirk reappeared. "He just needs to be willing to take a risk."

They looked at one another for a long moment, warm and wary brown into cold and determined blue. "Could he really overcome six years of constant animosity?" Hermione pleaded, struggling to be realistic.

"You certainly have."

"I'm a bit more...forgiving...than a Slytherin usually allows."

"Yes. Forgiving, compassionate, kind, fair, just. Admirable, in the eyes of the current regime. A force to be reckoned with, in the face of the Dark Lord. Not Malfoy traits—but they could be." She must have seen the defeat and hope in Hermione's face, because she stood.

"What if I don't want this?" Hermione whispered, before Narcissa could walk away.

"But you do," she reprimanded. "My son, despite his upbringing, has come to respect and like you—high praise from someone like _us_. You're capable of deeper emotions. A Gryffindor..." She cringed a little. "And, yes, a woman; we tend to feel more than our counterparts." Her eyes met Hermione's. "He has given you his approval, and you have developed a soft spot for him, a weakness. So many have; it isn't a surprise. He has his charms, does he not?" With a sigh, Hermione nodded in agreement. Narcissa, too, nodded. "And you are, as he said, a champion of the weak and downtrodden." Her lips curled. "In this climate, the Malfoy family has come to fit the bill." There was a pause. "I'll help you with your hair before dinner tomorrow evening," she murmured. "And we'll find you something suitable to wear. We usually dress for dinner." Her eyes glittered in amusement. "He won't be able to resist."

"I..."

"Consider it," she said, moving toward the door. "But in the meantime, it wouldn't hurt to try to catch his attention, would it? You _do _like him."

Hermione supposed not, but she didn't get to say so, for Narcissa had already closed the door softly behind her. Slightly furious, remarkably embarrassed, and horribly wrong-footed, confusion wheeling through her mind, she stormed into her bathroom, abandoning the robe on the changing screen for the much more practical flannel pyjamas. When she crawled into bed and extinguished the lamps, her eyes remained open, staring up into her canopy. There was far too much to think about for sleep to swallow her.


	23. lioness

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-THREE

_lioness_

Draco blamed the dress first, and the wine second. No, on second thought, he blamed _her _first. That came before everything else. Before the outrageous dress, before the intoxication of alcohol, _she _had started this. _She _had shouldered into his life and tried to help him. _She _had persuaded and wheedled and played along and shown her smirking side. So _this _was all her fault.

He was scarcely able to rip his eyes from her figure to eat after she flowed down the stairs, her hair swept up off her shoulders in an elegant bundle of pinned curls, her posture somehow more graceful than it had been when she'd huddled outside in the cold that morning with him—and that had been bad enough. His self-control was slipping away from him, so when her hair sparked with electricity from the fury of having a snowball thrown at her, it was all he could do not to throw her to the snow and take her. And now, wearing a floor-length, deep blue, form-fitting dress that left very little to the imagination, she was practically forcing his mouth to water.

Dinner was silent, but he hardly noticed; his mind was so loud with thoughts and desires that it seemed like there were a hundred people in this room, all talking or yelling or murmuring. He drank more than he should have, pacing his bites of food with the consumption of wine. His thoughts only grew more crazed. She was burning him up just by taking delicate bites from a silver fork. He ached. If he got through the night without succumbing, he would be miserable indeed. But he wouldn't think of that just yet. He would think instead of how he would seduce her at the meal's end. He would believe himself, just for the moment, that he would really give in to a fleeting desire.

His mother slipped away with a quiet good night at the end of the meal, and they both stood. He felt warm from the wine, brazen, but didn't act; he gestured to the hallway. "What would you like to do?" he asked, and his voice was courteous enough, controlled enough. "Explore the library again?" There was a smirk about his lips; he knew that her fingers had been itching to get on those books since he'd shown her the place the night before.

She nodded, and then winced as she took a step. Her cheeks turned a light pink. Not quite a blush, but damn near. He repressed the suicidal urge to make a comment that would stain her skin the colour of red wine. "I'd like to change first, though. If you couldn't tell, this is quite uncomfortable."

He nodded. "I'll escort you. I'd wait for you in the library, but...I'm certain you'd get lost." He smirked at her frown; she could scarcely realize that the scowl on her face was so pleasing to him.

She lifted a fistful of the dress as she climbed the stairs with him at her side, exposing a stretch of her legs. Merlin. How far was it to their rooms? He counted to thirty-seven before they reached the top of the staircase, and then he breathed in the mouth-watering scent of her, apples drenched in melting brown sugar, and felt himself snap. He threw his arm out to stop her going any further, and when she glanced up at him in confusion, a look of utter embarrassment crossed her face. She blushed.

It was too much for _any _man to handle, even if that man was Draco Malfoy.

"Tell me something," he said, his voice slightly more forceful than he'd intended it. "Why are you so terribly _embarrassed _lately? You blush, on average, every other minute."

Just as his words hit their stride, she regained her composure. She swept a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't know what you're talking about." Her words quavered despite the smooth, unruffled look on her face.

"What are you _doing_, Granger?" More force this time. She wouldn't be able to help it—she'd have to argue. Fighting was the safest place for him right now. Yes. If she was furious, and he was furious, he could stop this feeling in its tracks. She would storm away, and he wouldn't have to act on his desires. "Half the time you act like you're about to jump me, and the other half it's like you want to pretend I don't exist." His eyes glittered in feigned amusement. "Not that I mind—"

She huffed, cutting him off. "As _if_," she scoffed. "As if you weren't acting just as _odd—_the way you were staring at me at dinner, so aggressively, I'm surprised your mother didn't berate you—"

"_I'm _acting odd?"

"Ever since the night Ron kissed me you've been completely strange, it's like—like you're flirting with me, or something—"

Her words staggered to a halt when she caught sight of the look on his face. The blush on her face darkened exponentially. "You think...you think!" He let out a harsh laugh and her embarrassment seemed to suddenly flee, her brown eyes sparkling dangerously. "Weasley's attentions have obviously gone to your head, I'm a _Malfoy_, I have _standards_, you ridiculous little—"

"Take a look at yourself before you call _me_ names," she snarled up at him, and took a step forward. Automatically, hastily, he backed up as she advanced. "Draco Malfoy, the smug, the arrogant, the _Death Eater_, you put off this horrible mask but it's all just pretend, I've _seen _the real you and it's too bad that you hide him from everyone else because the world might like you better!" He felt himself back into his bedroom door, and cursed inwardly, opening his mouth to try and gain control of the conversation, but her words swept over him, rising in volume, a tidal wave. "You're cruel and loathsome to everyone, but for me you would eat a cordial meal with Harry Potter!" She let out a shrill laugh. He felt the nightmarish, self-destructive desire in him building. With all the red in her face and her hair coming out of its elegant styling, and her finger jamming him so hard in the chest that she might poke right through, it was becoming increasingly evident that her fury only elicited more unwanted reactions from him. "All in the name of House unity, right?" she ranted on. "All for the sake of something else that you've never believed in, but suddenly you're taking your _duties_ seriously? Oh, and yes—Hogsmeade—because all you wanted was to make Pansy jealous, so why were you holding my hand under the table after she was long gone? And _don't _even get me started on all the fights, all the long silences—just because you're so damn afraid of feeling anything that you're terrified to even _interact_ with me!" She was incensed now, completely transformed, the Gryffindor lioness in the flesh, raising herself on her toes to put herself more at a level with his gaze; he leaned as far back as he could until his head hit the door behind him. "And _then _you invite me to this Manor for Christmas, and you claim your _mother_ requested it—" She barked another laugh. "—as though you couldn't have gotten out of it! As though she was bending your arm backwards to get me here! Not to mention what happened after Ron kissed me, and the whole comforting bit you pulled—what _Slytherin _would do that for a _Mudblood_, Malfoy—"

Something within him snapped when she snarled his surname. Her brown eyes, sparkling with tears of fury, combined with her proximity and her rage, ended his resistance. Before she could mangle out another word, his hands framed her face and his lips crashed down on hers. After her shouting, the silence pounded against his eardrums with an iron fist. He could feel her hesitation, but then, barely seconds later, felt her give in. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands slid along the silken material of her dress, and he nearly groaned at the pleasure of feeling the slender curve of her hips. Her lips pressed back against his insistently as her hands slid down against his chest, and he became bolder, more demanding, hooking an arm around her waist and pulling her body flush against his, his free hand coaxing her jaw to relax, her lips to loosen. His teeth grazed her lower lip and he felt her shudder.

Gradually, it slowed, until a last, soft, lingering kiss parted them. Her lips looked swollen, and her breath came in short gasps, as though he had nearly drowned her. She slowly came down off her toes, her eyes opening to stare up into his as his hand cradled the back of her head, deeply entwined in her carefully-done hair. He momentarily lost himself in the sparkling warmth of her chocolate-brown eyes—in the delighted, surprised look in them. Wrong-footed, he cleared his throat. "You can't do that," he murmured, but his voice came out much softer and rougher than he had intended it. "You _can't _be angry at me and expect me _not _to jump you. You're so bloody sexy when you're mad—"

"I'm still mad," she muttered, though she didn't look it at all. "You're a git."

His hand let go of her hair and reached behind him to twist the door open. He pulled her into his bedroom after him, and shut the door. With space re-established between them, her anger had faded; she just looked at him, blankly, nervously, the red still in her cheeks. He closed the distance she had put between them, and pulled her lithe form against his. There were equal degrees of fright and determination in her eyes as she looked up at him. "What're you thinking?" he demanded of her with a frown, his hand lifting to pull one of the many pins from her hair.

She let out a laugh. "You can't tell?" He gave her a glare as he continued freeing her curls. "Where is this going?"

"Somewhere," he said vaguely, as she shook her hair free at last. _Somewhere very good_, he corrected inwardly, and twined his hands in her hair, and kissed her again, more gently this time, since the edge of wanting her had worn off a bit after that initial breaking point. Again, she hesitated, but slowly, her lithe form pressed to his, her arms wrapping around him. Pleased, he ran his hands along the exposed skin of her back before sliding down the clingy material, feeling the shape of her. Her hands were suddenly sliding into his hair, running through it, putting the blonde strands on end. His tongue pressed to the seam of her mouth, and she opened to him willingly, their kisses becoming deeper, more passionate. Still holding her, he backed her toward the bed.

"Somewhere more comfortable," he clarified, just as the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sat, surprised. He followed her up, then pinned her down, his body overlapping hers. Her hair scattered wildly across his pillows, framing her face, pink with wine and lust. His lips moved from hers to her throat, and as she gasped, his hand coaxed her back to arch. He found the zipper of the offending dress and slowly freed her of the material. Her hands grabbed fistfuls of the sheets on either side of her, her eyes closing as she felt his fingers trail down her spine. He flicked aside the straps of her dress, and slowly, slowly removed it from her body, exposing her skin an inch at a time.

She wore dark blue lace beneath the dress, her breasts cupped enticingly in the soft material. As her dress pooled on the floor, he allowed himself a moment to simply drink in the sight of her. With her splayed beneath him, those edges of delicate patterns grazing her ivory flesh, he appreciated the slender curves of her body; the small but well-formed nature of her chest; the long and flawless path of her legs, twisting under him; the supple skin stretched across her flat stomach and the ridge of her hip-bones, barely visible. Her wand was strapped to her right calf; he removed it and laid it gently on his night stand. She was a little red from the heat of his gaze on her; it was endearing. "It was the only thing that really went with that damn dress," she blurted, defending herself for her choice of lingerie, and he grinned, his deft fingers beginning to undo his tie.

"It's not like I don't like them. It just seems...unlike you."

She rolled her eyes, stretching her legs out. He watched her stomach tauten, her chest lift, and his fingers momentarily fumbled on the buttons of his shirt before he managed to rip it off. "I have fits of unanticipated and uncharacteristic behaviour," she grumbled, "and I blame you for it."

He laughed, genuinely, one hand reaching out to stroke the unbelievably soft skin of her thigh while the other loosened his belt. "I can't believe you've been hiding _this _under those robes all these years," he teased, watching her breath hitch as his fingers traced patterns on her inner thigh.

Her eyes, rather than watching his hand on her thigh, lifted to his face, and then traced over his chest. "Well, I never believed the rumours about how you looked shirtless until _now_." She sighed, then corrected herself. "I suppose that's a lie. I've seen you shirtless a few times before."

"You were trying your hardest not to look." He could feel the smirk on his lips but couldn't stop it. She didn't seem bothered by it; on the contrary, her brown eyes softened.

"Yes," she answered, her voice just as soft. "For good reason."

By now, his pants were gone, pooled on the floor beside the bed along with most of their clothing. His hand abandoned her thigh to move up her body, gently brushing lace and skin, as she shivered. Then he pulled her up with ease, leaned back against the pillows and headboard, and let her legs straddle his hips. His hands explored the mostly uninterrupted space of her back, relishing in her smooth skin. Her mouth dipped to his again, and he lost his hands in the smooth and wild tangles of her hair. Her hands braced themselves against his shoulders, her nails beginning to dig into his back. He could feel the warmth through her knickers, pressing against him. Smoothly, his hands slid from her hair, and unsnapped the clasp of her bra. He could feel the heat of her skin as he pulled the straps from her shoulders and discarded the material; with the absence of yet another layer between them, a short groan resounded in his throat.

"Draco," her voice whispered against his lips, "what are we doing?"

"Stop thinking," he murmured back at her, his lips moving to her neck, to her throat, to her collarbone. Her head tilted back, giving him better access. She tasted delicious. As his teeth scraped her skin, she let out a soft gasp, followed shortly by a pleased groan. "For once in your life, stop thinking. Just trust me."

He felt her give in as her lips pressed to his again, her hands now running through his hair. With another growl, he pushed her off of him and landed on top of her. His lips nuzzled her neck and collarbone as she gasped in pleasure, and then stiffened in anticipation as his hands and lips moved slightly south. He trailed down her body, his lips finding sensitive stretches of skin to elicit more throaty moans from her mouth. His fingertips hooked around her lacy underwear at her hipbones, gently pulling them down over her long, smooth legs; she kicked them off her ankles, her eyes fixed on his face. He removed his boxers, taking another moment to look at her, her naked form sprawled beneath him, her breasts small but so well-formed, the crook where her legs met—

After grabbing his wand and performing the necessary charm on himself, he covered her body with his and trailed kisses from her collarbone to her lips. She shivered. "Are you afraid?" he murmured, teasing and smirking again.

"No," her lips whispered back against his, defiant.

His hand flowed along the curve of her body before settling at her hip, his other hand bracing himself against the bed. Holding her still, he pushed into her in one slow, smooth thrust, feeling her break, confirming his suspicions. She bit her lip—her chest heaved—but not even a soft whimper escaped her. _Gryffindor, indeed_. He let her adjust to the feeling for a moment, enjoying how tight she was around him, but the urge built slowly inside him—he had to move. He pulled back, nearly to her entrance, and pushed in again, with a little more force this time. She was warm, and so tight. He resisted the urge to pound into her, to finish his agony. Prolonging it would be…he watched the look on her face, the soft pants escaping her lips. _Enjoyable_. His hands hitched under her, dragging her legs up around his waist, and she let loose a small whimper as he pressed deeper—it didn't quite sound pained. He didn't realize his eyes had closed until he opened them to stare into hers, and there it was.

That _feeling_, stronger than ever, making it seem as though his heart was up in his throat and strangling him; it was so strong when he looked into her warm brown eyes, the eyes that were full of hints of pain and another emotion that he couldn't put a name to. It was a very un-Malfoy-ish feeling; it was the feeling that had driven him to Stupefy her so she wouldn't leave, to hold her hand under a table at the Three Broomsticks, to sleep with her in his arms when she needed comfort. He leaned down to capture her lips in his, one hand still on the bed, the other cradling the back of her head through her hair. She finally released another soft whimper as he kissed her, still stroking slowly in and out of her. It didn't sound pained at all, and he wanted to hear more of them, suddenly. With his hand still twisted in her hair, his lips moved to her neck, softly kissing and sucking and nibbling on her sensitive flesh. She let loose a hoarse groan, her head tilting again.

"Hermione," he murmured in her ear, and she gasped at the sound of her name. He pushed in a little harder, resisting the desire to moan now himself. "How did _no one _get to you before me?"

There was the flash of smirk across her lips before she pressed them to his neck, to a sensitive place just beneath his jaw. "You bring out the worst in me," she whispered against his skin.

He didn't see how this answered his question, but didn't bother pursuing it at the moment; she felt too good, too delicious, wrapping all around him. His pace increased steadily, until a moan finally did rip free of his throat. One hand still braced against the bed, his other hand still twined in her hair, he kissed her again, and again, their lips not parting until he felt the edge coming upon him quite suddenly. She writhed beneath him as he pounded, faster, harder, his breath panting against her neck and her whimpers and moans in his ear, the sound of her crying his name—and suddenly she was tightening around him, her back arching, her fingernails raking down his back. He couldn't resist any longer, and followed her over the edge.

It was a long moment before either of them said a word. He forced himself to breathe slowly, gulping thick lungfuls of air; her scent accompanied the oxygen. Her chest heaved beneath him, and he propped himself on his elbows above her, giving her room to breathe. She was staring up at him, seemingly somewhat befuddled, her breath still coming in ragged gasps, and there was that _feeling _again, looking into her warm brown eyes, the feeling that made him want to grab her in his arms and fall asleep beside her.

He gently pulled out of her, flopped onto the pillow beside her, and slipped his arm beneath her shoulders, turning her so that she was cradled against his chest. He was sure that the feeling made him do it—the feeling that made him feel more alive and in more pain than he'd ever been. "It'll be better next time," he murmured, his free hand lifting to stroke her hair, and suddenly there was nothing _hard _or _frigid _about Draco Malfoy, nothing _indifferent _or _aloof_, and for the moment, he was at peace with that.

He felt a smile twist her lips against his skin. "It was pretty good, you know, for a first time," she murmured, and then, "Next time?"

He let out a snort, his eyes falling closed, as though to say the question was ridiculous. She snuggled closer to his side, giving a sigh that sounded suspiciously like contentment, and his arm automatically tightened around her. Within moments, he listened to her breathing deepen; soon, she was asleep. Still his fingers teased apart the strands of her wild hair as he lay there, sunk in that _feeling_, barely able to put a name to it. It was bliss, blinding, all-consuming.

He didn't just _want _her; while he'd been focusing on his little game of conquest those tender feelings in his chest had been multiplying until they filled the whole empty cavern of his heart with their light. _How far I've fallen_, he thought with a twist of irony as he turned, propping his chin on her head. She made another soft noise in her sleep, and one of her arms wrapped around his ribcage, fingers relaxed around the edge of his body. _If you could only see me now, father_.

It was just that it didn't feel like falling, it felt like flying. This wasn't how he'd felt after sleeping with Pansy. He'd been annoyed with her lingering presence, her constant and persistent embraces, but from Hermione Granger, these things were suddenly acceptable, even desirable. And Pansy's occasional little whispers of _I love you, Draco _had gone ignored. He had a feeling that Hermione would never say those words—not first, anyway. Hermione, who had been so careful with her heart, would never act that weak. He was certain that she had loved Weasley more than even she could say, but never—not once—had she told him, even though she'd nursed that affection for years as it evolved from a crush to love. Yes, Hermione Granger was careful with her heart.

He nearly let out a snort. What an odd thing to be thinking about. What a _stupid _thing to be thinking about. This was _sex_, nothing more.

But that part of himself was swallowed up again as her fingers momentarily dragged her body closer to his—if that was even possible. There was that wash of bliss again, the feeling that his heart was about to explode from pounding, the light-headedness that swept him as he inhaled her warm, delicious scent.

Gently, he turned her onto her side, facing away from him. With a quick, quiet motion, he reached down to the pile of sheets and blankets and pulled a few up over her, then slid beneath them himself, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her body back against his chest. Again, that quiet noise in her sleep; as he lifted his head, he saw the slightest of smiles grace her pink, swollen lips.

Before he could spend more time thinking about stupid, irrelevant things, he buried his face in her wild mane of hair, and let sleep take him.


	24. forgiveness

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-FOUR

_forgiveness_

She woke up because she couldn't ignore the sunlight any longer. It was bright, white, reflecting off all the snow outside the windows, piercing through her eyelids. She didn't open them just yet. She wanted, instead, to think about everything. The blankets and sheets were pooled near her feet—it was hot enough without them. Hermione Granger was waking up in Draco Malfoy's bed, stark naked, and judging by the soft snores and the arm wrapped around her waist from behind, he was still in it. _And still naked_, she thought, feeling the places where their bare skin stuck together.

She didn't want to hang round long enough for him to wake up. She didn't want to see the disgust in his eyes when his defences went back up. His arm was loose around her waist, and it sounded as though he were still deeply asleep. She was nearly at the edge of the bed; quietly, she slipped from beneath his arm and picked up her wand from the night stand before turning to ascertain the damage.

There was a little blood on his sheets, but a non-verbal _Scourgify _took care of that. She didn't want to think about the blood that was probably between her legs. Her thoughts didn't stray too far in that direction, though, because her eyes had strayed to his face.

He was deeply asleep, and looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him. There was nothing strained about his muscles, no lingering irritation about his eyes and his mouth. She resisted the desire to crawl back into his empty arms, and turned away, picking up her dress and lacy undergarments from the night before. She felt cold without him curled beside her. But she summoned her robe, and slid into it, before leaving his room and closing the door behind her.

She turned her shower on hot; it was horrible, the frigid temperature that was seeping through her. She let the water drench her, feeling herself begin to tremble as she considered what she had done.

What if he was disgusted with her? What if he went back to how he'd been before—what if those words before she fell asleep were just words, and he would regret them when he woke? She stifled a sudden sob as it rose in her chest, and dunked her head under the freezing water. _Stupid_, she accused herself bitterly. Granger 2.0 was gone, leaving in her wake the confusion and desperation of a girl who was certain she'd just broken her own heart with a spurt of rebellious recklessness.

In the end, Draco Malfoy was dangerous. Pureblood, Slytherin, ex-Death Eater. The entirely wrong person to hand her heart to. The entirely wrong person to...to...the thought of it made her burst into tears. To _love_. And it had been her, believing that he could _return _that sentiment, that had led her to share his bed the night before. What a stupid, foolish decision—as though he were capable of such things. As though all of his flirtations weren't just to get her in her knickers and have a quick shag.

_He could have done that with much more experienced witches than you._

Through her tears, she turned up the temperature of the water, finally feeling how cold it was. Yes, it was true; he didn't have to sleep with _her_. She was sure there were plenty of girls roaming the corridors of Hogwarts who were better for a shag than she. She, who had last been kissed by Cormac McLaggen, and who _hadn't _liked it. She, who had once dated Victor Krum, but who had never entertained more than a soft sort of romance with the Bulgarian. She, who had been a virgin until last night.

She bit back a sob and forced herself to wash. _What have I done? _she demanded of herself miserably.

But eventually, her frantic thoughts came round to the idea she had been following before. He could have slept with _anyone_. But he had chosen her. Why? Was there a plausible reason, besides him returning the sentiment?

Her stomach plunged. Yes—yes, of course there was.

To hurt her.

He had only done it to hurt her.

She began to seethe.

All those months of friendship and fights and the occasional flirtations; all the attempts at house unity and times spent comforting her; all the looks and the conversations and even the occasional smile...it had all been a manipulation. Yes; he had done it to hurt her. There was no doubt about that. He had bent her so easily to his will, and he had taken a part of her she would never get back. To hurt her. He had done it to hurt her.

She finished washing and slowly, deliberately turned off the tap. She wrapped herself firmly in a towel, and used another to wring most of the moisture from her hair. Then she twiddled her wand, allowing the strands to dry in fitful curls. She pulled these back into a loose ponytail, letting the shorter strands straggle out messily. Who cared what she looked like for this confrontation? If he was lucky, she would only slap him. If he wasn't...well, he would be unrecognisable when she was through with her arsenal of spells.

She dressed carefully, in dark blue jeans and a dusky purple sweater, then slid her wand into her sleeve. After pulling on thick socks, she slipped quietly from her room and did her best to remember the convoluted route to the library. Until he came looking for her, she wanted something to distract her; nothing could be better than her best and oldest friends—books.

To her surprise, she remembered the route well enough, only taking a wrong turn twice, and ended up in the room with the walls of thick tomes without too much effort. She took her time, letting the awe seep into her at the sight, letting it dissipate some of her rage and despair. Her hands flitted along the shelves, her ears slowly filling with the sound of the crackling fire. She found a fat volume, faded with age, on pure-blood Wizarding etiquette, and snorted. She had climbed to the second level, browsed the shelves, and taken a seat at the top of the wrought-iron, spiral steps when she heard his voice.

"Hermione? Hermione!"

He hadn't entered the room yet. She wondered how long he'd been looking for her throughout the house. Her eyes flicked toward the window, disregarding the door. It looked peaceful outside, the bright winter sun reflecting off the brilliant sheets of snow; it was perhaps the exact opposite of the roiling fury building up inside her.

The door slammed against the wall as it sprang open. "Hermione," his voice said, half-relieved, half-exasperated, and she turned, slowly, languidly, to look at him.

Perhaps it was his pure-blood heritage or his Slytherin doctrines or the paranoia of an ex-Death Eater that made him look the way he did now; uncertain, and maybe a touch fearful, of whatever expression was on her face. Slowly, she stood. She had never felt so full with such anger, not even when Ron was snogging Lavender Brown. She had never wanted so badly to _hurt _someone. And to take her time about doing it.

She noted with pleasure that he still looked befuddled, too, as though he'd barely woken. His hair was in severe disarray, his clothes rumpled; as she descended the stairs, she noted that he must have yanked on pyjamas before stalking off about the house to locate her. Green and silver, and a long-sleeved white shirt, and bare feet to chase her, even though the drafts in the hallways of the Manor were quite cool. No doubt he wouldn't want her running away just yet. He would want to have time to gloat. She had already robbed him of his prime opportunity, when he would have woken, with her still naked beside him, in bed. So of course he had come looking for her, had sought her out.

Her gaze levelled at him, but he didn't budge. "Found the library, then?" he asked, forcefully, if politely.

Her voice was quiet, but furious, as her feet landed on the floor at the bottom of the small set of stairs. "If you've come to gloat, you might as well get on with it," she said. Distantly, she was proud of the chill in her tone, proud of the dark fury that hid there. She was not a crying wreck. She was seeking revenge. She would have it.

His look turned from uncertain to wary. "To gloat?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said idly, beginning to cross the library toward him. It was some distance, but their voices carried perfectly. "To gloat."

From wary, to confusion. "What're you on about?" he asked.

She laughed. The sound scared even her. It had not even an edge of mirth or hysteria. All it had was rage. "As if you don't know, you two-faced ferret," she hissed. "Are you proud of yourself? Hmm? Congratulations. You spent months subtly manipulating me, and I fell for it. You must be so pleased. All you ever wanted was to hurt me. And you knew that this would be the way."

From confusion, to realization.

And then, he laughed.

It broke her, snapped her resistance in two. She closed the distance between them, and slapped him with all the force she had. He hadn't expected it, and he reeled; when he could drag his hand away from his face, she saw the bright red outline of her hand print there. She was proud of herself for it. Horribly, bitterly, fiercely proud. His eyes were watering, narrowed against the sting. "You're insufferable," she said, in a low voice. "You're absolutely horrid. Pure-blood, Slytherin, Death Eater. You really can't shake those titles, can you, Malfoy? It's just in your nature to hurt people. To manipulate them until they bleed for you."

"Hermione—"

The sound of her name on his tongue just made her want to hurt him more. She would never be able to erase his voice in her ear, saying that name while he was inside her. She hit him again, harder this time, and even though he must have been expecting it, he still staggered a bit from the blow. His hand stayed clutched over the red skin, his lips twisting in pain.

"Don't," she snarled, "call me that. I'm not _Hermione_ to you. I'm _Granger_. I'm _filthy Mudblood_. Why don't you just _say it_? You can stop pretending. You can gloat. Tell me all about how you made me _care _about you just so you could hurt me more. You deserve it. You did it well, didn't you? Go ahead and _tell me_."

He just stared at her, hand still over his face. She waited. She was patient; she had time. Slowly, he let his hand lower, his eyes still watering. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Don't want to tell me?" she said sardonically. "But you've been building up to it for _so long_, Malfoy. Go ahead and say it."

He shook his head once more.

"Are you afraid of me hitting you again?" Her lips twisted in a humourless smile. "How silly. Pure-blood, Slytherin, Death Eater." Her voice sang out the titles. "What do you have to fear from me? Mudblood, Gryffindor, Harry Potter's best friend. I'm sure you could hex me six ways from Sunday if you had your wand. Don't you?" Her eyes widened innocently.

"No," he said, his voice low. "I don't. I wasn't aware I was going looking for a homicidal nutter."

"No?" Her eyes narrowed. "What did you expect?"

"Not..." He seemed to struggle to get the words out. "Not...this. Crying, maybe. Angry, almost certainly. But even I wouldn't have guessed that with an hour alone you could talk yourself into this _rubbish_."

She didn't want to use her wand—it wasn't satisfying enough—so she hit him again. He didn't flinch this time. He took the blow. The print on his face was quite livid now. "Rubbish?" she demanded, her voice finally rising. "There's nothing _rubbish _about the truth."

"This isn't _true_." He sounded impatient; his hand twitched, as though about to grab hold of her, but she stepped nimbly out of arm's reach.

"Then tell me what is, Malfoy. Tell me what else makes sense. You could shag almost any girl in school, and they would all be better at it. But instead you spent months manipulating _me_, just enough to get me in bed." Her voice was scathing, but tears were beginning to prick at her eyes. "There's nothing in it for you, except to hurt me."

He let out a growl of frustration and took a step toward her, but she drew her wand as she danced back, and he froze, watching it warily. "Don't," he murmured, his eyes moving from her wand to her. "Stop this. Let me talk."

She let her wand rest in the hollow of his throat, but he didn't flinch. "Why?" she asked, softly, staring into his silver eyes. "So that you can spend more time playing with me? More time manipulating me, more time making me _care_, so that when you walk away it will hurt all the more?"

His face contorted. "You think very highly of my acting abilities. I am capable of a lot, but the Dark Lord and my father have agreed that I am too soft for my own good. Too weak. I'm not that good an actor, Hermione."

Her wand wavered.

"Listen to reason," he murmured. His voice, though strained, was soothing, calming. "I accepted the Order's protection. Surely you noticed the wards surrounding the Manor when we arrived? Why would I risk their anger by harming my one ally among them?"

"You didn't even _tell _me you'd accepted their protection," she pointed out coolly, and he cringed. "And you only _ever _do things for yourself, so even if you have—even if I believe you and your mother, who told me the night I arrived, by the way—that wouldn't stop you from hurting me. It isn't like they'd toss you out. They're too kind for that." At the moment, she wished they weren't. At the moment, she wished they would throw him out to defend himself, and Voldemort and his Death Eaters would return and _destroy _Draco Malfoy.

"I had been planning to tell you. I just hadn't gotten around to it quite yet. My mother has a big mouth." His eyes stayed on hers. "Just put the wand down."

"No." Her voice was mangled.

"I know you want to hurt me. I know. But I'd at least like it to be for the right _reason_!" His voice betrayed a hint of frustration. "You're wrong about everything!"

"Oh, _am I_?" she snarled, and her own rage betrayed her, because while she was nearly blind with fury he reached up and twisted her wand arm down to point at the floor. The curses she automatically released did no good, merely ricocheted against the ground and then absorbed into the high ceilings. He pulled her wand out of her fingers, and placed it next to them on one of the chaises. His steely grip reached up to hold both her arms, keeping them still.

"Yes," he breathed. "You are."

She had no hope of breaking free of that grip. She just stared up into those silver eyes, her own filling with furious tears, as he held her perfectly in place. "If you would have just waited until I woke up, if you wouldn't have left, we wouldn't be having this conversation," he murmured, exasperation colouring his tone. "Instead I wake up to you gone, and I'm sure you've left the house and are never going to speak to me again. At least you're still here," he mumbled, though he didn't sound particularly consoled. "Let me explain."

"No." She shook her head mechanically. "I am _done_ listening to your explanations, Malfoy."

"Then don't _listen_. Look." He cringed, but reached for her wand and wrapped her numb fingers around it. "Go ahead. I have nothing to lose by you getting into my head. I'm sure you studied the theory enough when I first broke into your mind...I'm sure you'll be quite good at it, actually. You always are, even on the first go-around." His lips twitched in a humourless smile.

She wanted to hurt him—but she wanted to know the truth more. Hermione Granger could not resist scratching the itch of curiosity. Her voice was thin, but she murmured the incantation: "_Legilimens_."

She could feel him flinching to keep his mental barriers from springing up, but she gave him little time for second chances, letting herself into his mind instantly.

The most recent memory was fresh: befuddled, worried, escalating to full-blown panic, tearing through his bedroom, his bathroom, and her quarters to realize she had gone. She frowned, unaware of the silver eyes she stared into, unaware of the arm he had wrapped around her waist to steady her. She dug deeper.

His chest was full to bursting and he was watching her fall asleep, naked beside him, playing with her hair. He was thinking a million things at once, about _her _and sex and the _feeling _that was confusing him and causing him to do stupid, ridiculous things. But the feeling swept over his doubts and suspicions as she dragged herself a little closer to him, and he sank into that bath of bliss, the lovely way it felt to have her near.

_Deeper._

She ached to know everything, now, and flipped back through the moments of their flirtations, the firm idea of conquest in his mind even though something else—that _feeling—_was lurking right behind; the smile she hadn't seen when she'd kissed his cheek after sleeping the night with him; the triumph of getting her to the Manor; his murmurs and curses as he stood watch over her through the night after hitting her head; the anger and displeasure he felt in their long silence, the guilt that twinged in him when he heard her scream in her sleep; the pleasure of showing off when they came back from Hogsmeade, of seeing everyone look at her and realize that she was _his_...even if she wasn't...

She gasped, losing concentration, and was out of his mind. For a moment, she felt nowhere, shocked by the flow of all the memories that weren't hers in her head. "It does take a certain composure," Draco's voice admitted. She slowly became aware of his silver eyes looking into hers. "You'd be good, though. With practice." His lips were twisted in a self-pitying smirk. "Happy?" he asked, quietly. "Congratulations. You've made me even softer than I was."

Her eyebrows knitted together. "You could be lying," she muttered.

"For Slytherin's fucking sake," he growled. "You are _so damn stubborn._ Lying, with you rifling through my head so feverishly? You put some stock in my abilities, Granger." He flinched, and automatically, she reached out to touch his shoulder. She didn't have to reach far; his arms were around her waist, pulling her nearly against him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Did I hurt you?"

He stared at her, disconcerted. "You feel _bad_, don't you?"

"Horrible," she admitted. "Whatever you've done to me, it's no reason to go on a rampage through your head...It must have been a horrid reminder of what the Dark Lord did...Merlin, Gryffindor and Dumbledore. I think I hit you hard enough to _bruise _you. Let me heal it."

He flinched again as her finger traced the outline of her hand on his cheek. "My memory does not serve me at all well," he grumbled. "I don't remember it hurting so much third year."

"I was...a lot angrier...today." She cringed and lifted her wand. She traced the forming bruise with the thin strip of wood, murmuring incantations repeatedly, until it had faded. He sighed in relief. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into me."

"You were impressive, you know," he said, with a lopsided grin. "It would have been sexy, had you not been about to slowly torture me to death. You may have belonged in Slytherin. Or maybe I'm just rubbing off on you."

She stared at the crooked smile on his face, and then her fingertips flitted up to touch his lips, tracing the curve. "I've...never seen you smile like that," she whispered as he looked down at her, amused and a little uncertain.

He shrugged. She felt the movement, and realized that his arms were still looped around her waist. He took a deep breath. "It's obviously going to be a process, right?" he murmured, the strain evident in his voice. "I'm not going to pretend this isn't hard for me, because it is. You're damn good at giving a bloke an identity crisis. It's like I've gone mental...all these voices in my head. All these parts of me I never knew existed." He flinched, as though it cost him something just to tell her that. "It's not going to be easy. It's certainly going to be about a hundred times worse than the last six years of torture because that kind of animosity was so _simple_. I would have just let it go, you know. I would have made a few jokes about us being drunk from dinner and we could've gone back to just being _friends _or whatever we were—"

"I wasn't drunk," she grumbled. "And if I liked simplicity I wouldn't be Harry Potter's best friend."

He sighed. The sound was somehow sardonic. "No, I don't suppose you'd have let me get away with that. But you have to really think about this. Consider if this is really what you want. It's not going to be what you had with Krum, or what you could have had with Weasley." He grimaced. "You had it right. Pure-blood, Slytherin, Death Eater. It doesn't just go away. I'm not affectionate. I'm not caring. I wouldn't exactly call any of my previous conquests _relationships_. The idea is almost completely foreign to me. I'm not going to be _good_ at this. And I've already hurt you. You turned down a bloke you've loved since you were _twelve _because he waited too long. This is a big risk for you. _I _am a big risk."

She nodded. "Yes," she murmured. "I wasn't sorted into Gryffindor for nothing."

He made a discontent noise in his throat. "Your friends won't be pleased." It was as though he was trying to talk her out of it.

This time, she shook her head. "Ginny already knows. I'm sure Harry suspects. And Ron...well, we'll deal with it when we have to. For now...I'm keeping bigger secrets than this. They needn't know, yet." Her eyes lifted to his. "But they should get used to the idea of us being friends. Of _all _of us being friends."

"To be honest, that's the least of your worries." His voice, though exasperated, was earnest. He let go of her, and pulled up his sleeve. The inactive Dark Mark, a faint grey outline, stood out on his left forearm. The sight derailed her. She glanced at him, unnerved. "Will you ever be able to _forget _everything I've done?" he gritted out. "I plotted to kill Albus Dumbledore. I made your life a living hell. I hurt people you love. Probably still will, as hard as I try to avoid it. I have been one of your greatest enemies for six years. How do you erase that?"

She didn't know what possessed her to do it. Gently, she took his hand in hers. Her eyes on his, she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to his palm. Then, slowly, her lips touched the Dark Mark. He had gone quite still, the look in his eyes unreadable. She knew that he was trying his best not to yank away from her, to let her continue to touch him in a way he'd undoubtedly never been touched. Her mouth kissed the skull, the length of the serpent. "The past is past," she murmured, her hand finding his; she laced their fingers together as he watched. "I won't forget, but I can forgive. You can't talk me out of this one. I won't make it difficult for you, though," she added. "I'll try not to act like a stupid bint. I can keep my distance if you like. It'll just be a more...comfortable...friendship."

He pulled her to him. "No," he told her, forcefully. "If we're going to do this, we might as well _do _it." She looked up at him, bemused. "You know everything already," he muttered. "You might as well teach me how to do this, too."

With a smile, she leaned up to kiss him. He was a little stiff, a little uncertain, but it seemed that as her lips pressed gently to his, he began to unthaw. He was right; it would be a process. She could get used to that.


	25. standstill

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-FIVE

_standstill_

The days tripped toward Christmas, and Hermione moved through them in a daze. They spent hours of time in the library, Hermione digging through the many massive texts there and stealing covert glances at Draco, who was usually similarly occupied; they roamed the grounds, stomping through the snow, sledding and having snowball fights; they argued, certainly, as much as was usual, but the edge of animosity had gone. It had turned to playful, if fierce, bickering.

There was a new edge, though, an edge of perpetual happiness, a smile that she caught on his face when he thought she wasn't looking, something that didn't even vaguely resemble a smirk. He was quiet about it, but he was happy.

She felt another edge, too, an edge of fear when she thought of returning to Hogwarts. They hadn't yet discussed how they would act around the school's population. They avoided speaking of anything too serious, yet, instead trying to adjust to the new connection they had found in one another. They certainly couldn't reveal the truth to its full extent. Here, at the Manor, with Narcissa happily staying out of their way—Hermione had heard distant humming coming from the woman's quarters, and was certain that she was pleased with everything—it seemed that the world ceased to exist. There was no war looking over their shoulders, there were no disgruntled friends, there was only the two of them, adrift, separate from the world, safe. And she was furious that it had to come to an end.

...

"Christmas!" a voice announced loudly, quite close to her head, and Hermione jolted awake.

She groaned, yanking a pillow over her head even as she felt Draco ripping the sheets and blankets from her warm nest. His warmth was gone, too, and she felt more annoyed about this; he was quite comfortable, and quite the space heater. "Christmas can wait a few hours," she groaned, as he pulled at one of her ankles. "Give me a blanket back, it's cold." Wearing only one of his over-large t-shirts and a pair of underwear, she was quite aware that the temperature in the room was not at all what it should be.

She felt something soft land across her lower back, and groped around to grab it. It wasn't a blanket, but her flannel pyjama bottoms, which she hadn't worn in a good few days. She had gotten into the habit of falling asleep next to him, and there was usually no need for that extra layer of warmth. "Come on," his voice said, whining a bit. "I want to open presents and it's rude to do it without you. You only have to come down to the floor, look, they're right here."

"No," she said stubbornly, keeping her head under the pillow. "You kept me up half the night." She heard his pleased snicker, but didn't have the capacity to feel embarrassed, only annoyed. "I need _sleep_."

"I have a present for you." His voice was reaching an exasperated pitch now. His footsteps padded closer, and he swept the pillow off her head. She pressed her face into the mattress, her eyes still shut tight. "Come on, I'll let you go back to sleep after. I promise."

She cracked one eye open suspiciously. "I don't believe you."

He offered her a large box, wrapped in bright red paper, tied off with a brilliant golden bow. "I know you're curious." He was smirking. She was beginning to find that expression of his _endearing_. The _horror_.

"You're evil," she told him, and sat up, reaching for the elastic band on her night stand to tame her hair. He watched this action regretfully; she had come to the realization that he liked her hair wild, as much as that shocked her. Slowly, regretfully, she pulled on the Gryffindor-coloured flannel and gave a huge yawn. He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bed, towing her toward the fire. The warmth swept over her in pleasant waves, and she sighed in relief, taking the box from him when he pushed it at her again. "That's mine for you," she added, nodding to a large green-wrapped package with a slim silver ribbon wrapped around it.

He tore the paper off enthusiastically and lifted the lid; she delayed the opening of her own present to watch his reactions. Inside was a jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish, a large lump of his favourite mint-flavoured dark chocolate fudge from Honeydukes, a copy of the play cleverly titled _Hélas, Je me suis Transfiguré mes Pieds_, another book titled _Handbook of Hippogriff Psychology_, and a small, smooth black stone.

"Oh, _brilliant_." As she had predicted, he immediately broke off a piece of fudge and stuffed it in his mouth. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?" he added suspiciously, lifting the French text first. "You _know _I don't speak French."

"It translates to English on the inside," she said, leaning over to flip open the book and point at the smaller title beneath the French words: _Alas, I have transfigured my feet. _He let out a small chuckle. "And...well, yes, that one I really _am _making fun of you. Hippogriffs are seriously misunderstood creatures," she added severely as he shot her a look.

"So what's this, then?" he asked, picking up the smooth stone; she watched him turn it over and scan the runes that were engraved on the back side of the very flat stone. Each of the tiny symbols were dotted with particles of other gems and stones: serpentine, amber, jade.

"It's onyx," she explained. "The stone itself promotes protection and health. The runes and the other stones solidify the spell, and I put another on it so that it doesn't just fall out of your pocket and get lost. It'll tend to stay close to you."

He continued to examine it in interest while she turned to her own present and ripped the paper off the box. There was a thick tome within called _Muggles Who Notice—_"That's you," Draco pointed out, rolling his eyes—her favourite caramel-milk-chocolate fudge from Honeydukes, a white peacock-feather quill, which she suspected had come from one of the albinos roaming the grounds, and another smaller box. She lifted it from amidst the wrapping paper, untying the thin silver ribbon from around it before cracking open the lid.

A figurine, carved entirely from the smooth stone of a deep blue sapphire and laced with silver, hung from a delicate silver chain. At first glance, the figure was a lion, complete with exquisite detail and a wild mane, with the fragment of a ruby marking its eye. When she lifted it to turn it to the backside, though, it transformed; now the figurine was a detailed serpent, with an emerald lodged in the eye socket. The pendant was small but very fine, and obviously imbibed with magic. "It should help you not worry so much that it kills you," his voice said dryly, interrupting her inspection of it. "I think we might've been thinking along the same lines." Smoothly, he lifted it out of the box and deftly closed the clasp at her neck. The stone figurine was pleasantly cool against her skin, the chain long enough that it could easily be tucked beneath the collar of her shirt. "It also reflects that you can be a bit like a Slytherin, when you're feeling up to it. And you should be happy about that," he added severely when she shot him a dirty look. "Prejudice goes both ways, you know."

"I love it," she admitted, lifting the stone to look at it again. "And you're right, of course." He looked at her with momentary bewilderment before reaching for a few more of his presents, tugging them toward him eagerly. She noticed that he had quite a pile, and sighed, pushing a stray clump of hair from her forehead. Whether or not Narcissa's plans carried out, she would never adjust to the grandeur of the Malfoys.

There were more presents for her, as well. A pair of emerald earrings, set in silver, and paired with an emerald-and-silver necklace, came from Narcissa; a note tucked into the velvet lining of the box read, _Congratulations—I was right not to underestimate you._ There was a thick stack of several literary classics from her parents, who wished her a good holiday and hoped she was finding Malfoy Manor hospitable. Ginny, too, had sent her a book, a thick tome on obscure Transfiguration, and written in a hastily scrawled note that she hoped Malfoy was playing nice; the girl had accurately seen through the lie that Hermione would be spending the holidays with her parents. Harry had sent along a wizard chess set and a package of ice mice. _I know you're terrible at chess, but it's good for you_, he wrote to her, and she couldn't help but smile. Ron's present was a sampling of sweets from Honeyduke's, and a basic blaze box from Fred and George's joke shop. _You're still my best friend, too_, his ragged slip of parchment said.

Somewhere in the midst of their opening presents, a house-elf had brought along a plate of sticky buns and mugs of hot chocolate. Hermione took a bite while she watched Draco pull a particularly frilly present from his dwindling pile. "Oh, Merlin," she said aloud with a grin. "That must be from _Pansy_." He appeared suddenly unwilling to open it. "Go on," she laughed, taking a sip of her hot chocolate. "This will be _brilliant_."

Inside was a bag bursting with sweets and a paperweight in the shape of a large golden snitch—the wings fluttered leisurely. He picked up the small card within the box, read it, and stifled a snicker, holding it out for Hermione to read. _Dearest Draco, I hope you enjoy the holidays. Perhaps there will still be some mistletoe at Hogwarts for us when we return? Love, Pansy._ She nearly choked on her sticky bun and handed the note back, snorting with laughter. He appeared both embarrassed and irritated. "She's lost her mind," he muttered furiously, "and it's all _your _fault. Encouraging her like that."

"What else was I supposed to do?" Hermione choked out, still laughing. "Let her get furious at me and curse me?"

"You would have won," he grumbled, still irritated, and reached for some of the sweets in the package.

"Wait." She scooted toward him and picked up the bag of sweets, then sniffed it delicately. "Don't eat these."

He looked, if possible, even more annoyed. "Why the bloody hell not?"

"Love potion," she answered grimly, and he blanched. "It's Amortentia, I'm certain. Otherwise these chocolates wouldn't smell like freshly-mown grass, parchment, and..." She frowned. When she'd taken a whiff of Amortentia in her sixth year, the last scent had not been present, but she didn't feel like telling Draco that his cologne had suddenly been added to the mix. "...It doesn't smell like sweets to you, does it?"

"Not the right _kind _of sweet," he said, and leaned forward to take a whiff. "Burning wood, broomsticks, apples, brown sugar...Definitely not chocolate." There was a slight frown on his face as he looked at the sweets, and she was sure she knew why; the last two scents he had named were the major components of her perfume and soap.

Without further contemplation, but with a small grin at this revelation, she fed the package into the fire. "I don't think you'd much fancy running off after Pansy at the moment," she said as the flames devoured the sweets.

"No," he muttered. "I can't believe her."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, you can't? She likes you a lot."

"_You _like me a lot, and you've never tried to feed me Amortentia," he grumbled, staring in annoyance at the large paperweight.

"Perhaps I'm less desperate," she remarked, her lips curling in a small smile. "Or maybe just less...forward."

He looked like he was trying very hard not to fire off a retort to that. "What would she have done, anyway, when it had worn off?"

Hermione shrugged. "Guilted you into staying, or fed you more. Perhaps eventually she'd be convinced that you had fallen in love with her in return, and would stop feeding it to you in the hopes that she wouldn't have to any more." _Like Voldemort's mum_, she thought, barely suppressing a cringe. She shoved the thought away. Christmas at Malfoy Manor was not the time to be thinking of Horcruxes. No, she wasn't interested in thinking of Horcruxes at all right at the moment.

"Pathetic," he said, and pulled a few more presents toward him with a scowl on his face.

"Oh, cheer up," she murmured sadly. "I don't know what else you could have expected from her. She's terrified she's losing you to _me_. It must be quite insulting for her."

He managed a small smile. "Oh, yes. Because you're so much uglier and stupider than she is." He snorted. "Come on, Hermione, don't be daft."

"I'm _not _beautiful," she told him, frowning, and he snorted, but didn't comment, "but at least I don't have a face like a pug. That isn't what I meant, though. She's _your kind_. Pure-blood, Slytherin. Losing you to a Mudblood—a Gryffindor—would be quite a slap in the face for her."

"Don't use that word," he murmured quietly, tearing away the wrapping on another gift.

"What word?" she asked, popping one of the ice mice into her mouth and shuddering at the sensation. It was a moment before he responded; by then, she had managed to swallow, and the squeaking of her teeth had quieted.

"Don't call yourself 'Mudblood'." He flinched. "It sounds all wrong..._oof_!"

For she had launched herself at him, pinning him to the floor, and kissed him full on the mouth, her hands holding tightly to his face. Enthusiastically, he threw away the present he had been ripping open and wrapped his arms around her, giving a soft groan of pleasure.

Breathless, she finally pulled away; he sat up, still holding her tightly, so that she straddled his lap. "What," he asked, blankly, and she noticed that his eyes had darkened perceptibly with desire, "was that for?" She suddenly felt infinitely warmer herself, and knew that it had nothing to do with the proximity of the fire blazing next to them in the grate.

"You...you said that 'Mudblood' sounded all wrong," she said, sheepishly, squirming a little, as though to evict herself of his embrace.

He simply stared at her, holding her firmly in place. "You're easy to please, aren't you?"

"It's heartening," she protested. "You actually think of me as a person with _feelings _now. That's quite a jump from four months ago."

"It's quite clear that you have _feelings_," he said, his voice patronizing. "Most prominent of those feelings, _anger _and _embarrassment_." At this comment, she blushed. He leaned forward to press his lips to her neck. Her pulse immediately escalated. "And a bizarre fondness for me," he added in a mumble. She could feel his frown against her skin.

"Yes, that _is _astonishing," she replied sarcastically, but her voice was a little too breathless to be sardonic. "Seeing as you've been a horrible prat and dragged me from bed at an absurd hour, just in time to discover that Pansy's present to you is Amortentia-laced sweets. Yes." She snorted. "Very bizarre, that I like you at _all_."

He glanced up at her, amused. "You sound...annoyed." His expression was a bit contemplative. "But it's also a bit more than that, isn't it?"

"No," she snapped, now squirming to get off his lap. "I'm _tired_. Therefore, annoyed."

He held her all the tighter. "No, it's something about Pansy." There was a wicked smirk overcoming his lips. She felt the desperate desire to hit him, but reminded herself, just as desperately, that she would only regret it later. "Oh, dear," he murmured sarcastically. "You're not _jealous_, are you, lioness? She's moving in on _your _territory, after all." There was a gleam in his eyes that told her that he thought it quite amusing that Hermione Granger was jealous of another girl's advances on him, but there was another look that told her he was enjoying her possessiveness.

She gave up the struggle to get out of his arms, thinking of the pet name he'd bestowed upon her. He was still smirking. _Lioness?_ She couldn't help but like the sound of that. He was _embracing _her Gryffindor loyalty. He was turning it into a _pet name_. Rather than be irritated, she, too, grinned. He was immediately disarmed; the smirk fell a bit. "So what if I am?" she challenged, reaching up to tousle her fingers through his hair. He automatically winced, but tried to smooth the expression over quickly. No doubt, he would have trouble adjusting to physical affection that didn't lead to sex—maybe it would be impossible. But then again, maybe he could adjust. Maybe he would even learn to do things like this in return. "She acts like you're hers, and you're not. You're not a bit of property to be shuffled back and forth between eager girls." She snorted. "And Amortentia? Please. She's insulting your intelligence. As if you wouldn't spot it!"

She could see his ego inflating, and decided to puncture the balloon before it went too far. "Creative nickname," she added in a murmur, a smirk turning up her own lips as she stared down into his now slate-grey eyes. "_Lioness_. What does it refer to?"

He scowled at her, and yanked her wild hair from her ponytail. "This untameable mane you've got, Granger," he said darkly, though the look on his face was clearly caught-out. "What _else_ would it refer to?"

"Nothing," she said sweetly, innocently, and he growled, seeking his revenge with a well-placed kiss at the crook of her neck and shoulder. She gasped, automatically, unable to keep the sound in. He chuckled darkly against her skin. "No," she said, unsteadily, as his hands moved to her waist. "You _promised _you'd let me go back to sleep!"

"I _lied_," he snickered, his hands already teasing the hem of the shirt she wore.

"I won't," she said, firmly. "I'll fight you—mmm." She couldn't help the noise of pleasure that escaped her as his teeth nipped at her shoulder.

"No, lioness, you won't." He shuffled her into his arms, stood, and tossed her to the bed, where she landed with a squeak. Abandoning the rest of his presents, he stalked to the mussed-up covers, where she stared up at him, half-annoyed, half-anticipatory. "And if you do," he murmured, his voice pleased, "it'll be even more fun."

"You have more presents to open," she tried, desperately.

He didn't spare them a glance. "This is more interesting." His eyes smouldered. The silver was darkened with lust. She shivered. "You can go back to sleep after," he assured her, pulling his shirt off over his head. Her heartbeat escalated at the sight of his well-sculpted chest. "Malfoy honour."

She grumbled as he descended on her. "Malfoys clearly have _no _honour." But at the sound of his soft laughter, and the feeling of his lips finding hers, she did nothing to stop him, only pulling him closer, dragging him nearer. She didn't know when he would change his mind, or how long this would last; she had dreaded suspicions that the stress of going back to Hogwarts would be enough to end their bickering, happy, quiet little tryst. So, though she was tired, she would enjoy him while she had the chance.

"Happy Christmas," he added, as his teeth nipped at her ear, and she couldn't help but agree.


	26. disagreements

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-SIX

_disagreements_

"We don't have to pretend to hate one another. We just have to act like we don't truly give a damn."

Hermione stared up at Draco in the shadows of King's Cross Station. "I'm a terrible actress."

He snorted. "I know, lioness." Her heart skipped a beat at the nickname he'd given her. "But you know how serious this is. We can't let it get out of our control, or we're both done for. We've still got five months of term to get through, and it will be easier if the entire school doesn't try to hex us while we're studying for our N.E.W.T.s. Just go sit with Weasley and Potter and forget I exist for the train ride." When she opened her mouth to protest, he leaned down and pressed a burning kiss to her lips. She automatically flung her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as his embrace twined around her body, moulding her to him. By the time he had pulled away, she had quite forgotten her train of thought. "I'll make it up to you tonight," he murmured, his voice husky, silver eyes darkened to a medium grey, the blue suddenly more pronounced. Before she could protest, he straightened her cloak, which he had knocked askew, and emerged from the corner of the station, making his way toward Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, his cloak billowing out behind his tall form. She waited until he had safely vanished, and then made her own way there. Her things were already safely stashed in a back compartment of the train.

She had not been without him for nearly the entirety of the Christmas holidays, and it felt strange not having him at her side. It felt strange being in school robes, feeling the gold-and-scarlet tie at her throat. It felt strange to be hiding the necklace he had given her beneath the collar of her shirt. It was strange to feel as though he had left, and taken part of her with him.

She walked casually and unseeingly through the barrier to the platform, and located her things on the train. The compartment she had chosen was still empty. With a sigh, she took a seat next to the window, looking out on the station.

"Hermione!"

She turned, glancing up at the wizard who towered in the doorway of the compartment. She blinked rapidly. The dark hair, the bright green eyes, the glasses... "Harry!" she replied, shocked. It felt as though she hadn't seen him in years. Her life had changed so rapidly since they'd last spoken. Without further ado, she jumped to her feet and hugged him, hard. His breath was expelled in a whoosh of air, and then he started laughing, putting his arms around her too.

"I missed you too," he told her with a chuckle as he closed the door to the compartment behind them. "Though I fully understand why you refused to come to the Burrow for Christmas."

"Oh no," she said weakly, leaning back from his comforting embrace to look up at him. "Ron's told you."

"Don't worry," he said quickly, pushing her gently down on her seat and flopping down on the bench across from her. "I think you did the right thing, you know, just for the record. This might sound selfish, but...as annoying as it is with you two fighting all the time...it would be worse if you were together and then broke things off." He grimaced, adjusting his glasses. "It's hard being the best friend of two people who won't speak to one another."

She sighed in relief. "Thanks for understanding, Harry."

He shrugged, and now his eyes narrowed. "How was your Christmas?"

"Erm...it was...good," she said carefully. "Though skiing isn't really my thing."

There was a moment of silence as his green eyes took in her discomfort. "You're lying," he finally declared. "Why are you lying? Do you really think I'm that blind? Or are you afraid I'm going to disown you?" He sounded genuinely frustrated.

"What are you talking about?" she said nervously, her words too flat to really be a question.

"You didn't stay with your parents." He now looked frustrated, too, jamming a hand through his hair. "I _know _you didn't. Have I really been that...that...distant? Did you really think I didn't notice?"

She cringed. "Harry, I—I'm sorry—"

"I mean, why else would you turn down Ron, who you've fancied for, oh, I dunno, six _years_? Not saying I'm unhappy about that, but damn, Hermione, this is—a _bizarre_ alternative—"

"Harry, please, just—just let me explain—"

"Explain _what_?" he roared, so loudly that she jumped and shrank back in her seat. "It's _fine_! Just bloody fine! You don't have to explain!" He looked at her, cringing in her seat, and cursed. "I _swore _I wouldn't get angry about this," he muttered. "I promised Ginny. It's just so hard to comprehend. To understand."

"I—I didn't mean it to happen, really, I didn't!" she cried, her tone escalating toward hysteria. "It just...did! I didn't want to admit it for the longest time, I was so afraid you lot would—would h-hate me..." Her eyes were prickling with tears, and she wiped them away impatiently. "And you do, don't you," she said miserably. "I knew you would. Oh, please, don't tell Ron. He'll never look at me again. I'm so sorry, Harry."

He stared at her. "What're you on about?"

She stared back. "You're...you're angry about...about Dra—Malfoy. Aren't you?"

"No, the hating bit. You lost me at the hating bit."

"Oh, come on!" The hysterical edge was there again. "You can't honestly be okay with this!"

He grimaced. "No, I can't say I am."

"Then what is there to clear up? I'll just find another compartment." She got to her feet, meaning to do it, so furious that he already knew. She would find Ginny and hex her so thoroughly that…that…a dry sob tore from her throat; she couldn't think of anything that would make her feel worse than taking out her anger on the youngest Weasley. It wasn't _her _fault that Hermione had terrible taste in wizards.

"Oh. You think I'm going to ignore the oblivion out of you for the rest of our lives." He seemed satisfied with this, heaving a sigh of relief.

"Well, yes. Aren't you?" Her sinuses felt flooded. She sniffed, and reached up to tug down her trunk.

"Oh. No, I'm not. I can't pretend to understandwhat you see...in _him_..." He grimaced, yet again. "It's quite hard to comprehend. You must appreciate that. But you're one of my best friends, Hermione. It would be...horrible...of me to not respect your choices. I know he's changed. Accepted the Order's protection, and all that, I discovered over the holidays. That's something."

She stared at him, her eyes still full of tears. Bugger. What was he saying?

"Just...just be careful," he finished, in a voice that pleaded. "It's still _Malfoy_."

"Oh," she said, faintly, and sat back down so that she wouldn't collapse.

"And let's not tell Ron yet," he added. "I don't think...it might be a bit much."

"Yes," she agreed, her voice still barely there. "It might."

He glanced at her in concern. "Are you all right?"

As though it were her cue, the world promptly turned black, and the last thing she felt was her head cracking against the train window.

…

"Hermione?" The voice was edgy, worried, scared, a little guilty-sounding. Familiar.

"She's coming round. Back _up_, Potter." Ah. That was the voice she needed. Cool with an edge of concern, her dragon, hovering beside her. She automatically turned toward the sound of his voice, though she didn't yet open her eyes. Everything felt too fuzzy. "Give her room to breathe."

"Is she all right?" A female voice, a bit high with anxiety, was further away, perhaps at the door of their compartment. "Oh, Harry, I told you not to get angry. She's so worried about it already."

"I didn't mean to." The first voice was back. So that was Harry. It sounded more like him, now. Resentful and guilty and a little relieved. "The absurdity of the situation just hit me. I tried to calm her down, but..."

"What's going on?" No. That was the last person she wanted around at the moment. She felt Draco immediately tense beside her, getting to his feet. "Oh...Malfoy."

"Weasley." His voice was cool but polite. "She's fine. Apparently skiing didn't suit her very well—she must have sustained a mild concussion at some point, and any excitement at all could have set off a bad reaction. I've mended it."

There was a long silence. "And why were you here?" Ron's voice said, as though he were trying hard to stay friendly.

"I was coming to look for her. We have Prefect duties—you, too, Weasley." His voice sounded perfectly irked when he spoke next. "She's in no state. We'll have to let her be. Come on, we need to patrol."

She could practically feel the bewildered look Ron was shooting at Harry before he followed Draco out of the compartment. Their footsteps receded. She groaned as the door clanked shut, and finally opened her eyes. Harry and Ginny were there, looking anxiously at her. Gingerly, she sat up.

"Maybe you shouldn't—" Harry tried, but Hermione only glared at him.

"I'm fine, thanks." She lifted a hand to her head. It was a bit stiff, but there was no evidence of a bump. "I suppose someone did actually mend the damage to my skull?"

Harry looked quite guilty. "Malfoy, yes. He came along quite soon after you fainted."

"It's sweet, him caring," Ginny piped up, but Hermione turned a glare on her, too. The younger girl stared back, her eyes full of apology but her mouth set in a firm line. "He already _knew_, Hermione, he just needed confirmation," she insisted, and Hermione knew that she was right; after all, as early as the Hogsmeade weekend, Harry had suspected her inclinations.

"Ron's still in the dark?"

"Malfoy covered for you—I'm sure you heard that bit? You have to tell him eventually." There was an accusatory look on Ginny's face now.

"Eventually, yes, but not _now_." Hermione cringed.

"The longer you wait, the worse it's going to be," the redhead told her warningly. "You'll be lying to him. He'll feel quite abused."

Hermione looked at Harry. Harry shook his head. "I don't think it's such a good idea," he addressed Ginny. "We need to ease him into the idea."

"There is no easing _anyone _into the idea of Hermione Granger seeing Draco Malfoy," she said crossly. "No, it's better to get it over with right off. He probably won't talk to you for a bit," she added to Hermione. "But he'll come round."

"I somehow doubt that," she murmured, feeling horribly light-headed again.

"He'll manage," Ginny said bracingly. "But you'll have to do it soon. Rip it off like a bandage." Harry shot her a bewildered look. "It's what Muggles say, isn't it?" she said, a bit hopelessly. "Dad's always going on with little sayings like that."

Hermione smiled weakly. "Just to clarify, you three are the only ones who can know." Harry and Ginny both looked at her, frowning. She gestured helplessly. "My best friends are having trouble stomaching this," she pointed out. "Can you imagine how the whole of Hogwarts would react? Our respective houses would disown us. The last thing we need is a spotlight. It's going to be hard enough as it is."

They lapsed into silence. She took it as agreement.

…

She didn't waste any time about it at all.

Once the main course of the meal had ended, she asked Ron to accompany her to her dormitory. She hated the hopeful look that crossed his face when she did so, hated herself for the pain she was about to inflict upon him, hated the worried and knowing looks Harry and Ginny exchanged. He seemed content with the silence as they mounted the stairs to the seventh floor. She was not content. She was completely anxious about what she would say, how she would break this news—the look on his face, the way he would hate her...

He was still her best friend.

"Possibilities," she told the vase of flowers, which swung forward obligingly, and she led Ron into the common room she shared with Draco.

It felt all wrong to have him there, the whole tall, gangly, red-haired length of him; it felt like he was trespassing on something that wasn't hers to share. She sat down on the couch, and he followed suit. It was only then that he caught the look on her face—the anxious, worried look. "Hermione?" he asked, uncertainly, and she could see his hope being shattered in that moment.

Her voice quavered when she spoke. "I suppose there's no easy way to tell you this," she said, quietly.

"Tell me what?"

She already felt short on breath. Dizzy. Horrible. "It's...it's Draco."

She felt him stiffen next to her, his wariness quite apparent. She could tell that he was forcing himself not to make a foul retort when he prodded her forward. "What about him?"

"We've...well." She cleared her throat. "I didn't spend the holidays with my parents." There, one miserable admittance down.

He looked a little nonplussed. "What does that have to do with Malfoy?"

She cringed. "I stayed with him over the holidays. At the Manor. They've...asked for the Order's protection, you know, and received it. He's officially on our side, now."

He was silent. Slowly, she looked sideways at him. He was staring at her, his eyes wide, face drained of all colour. "Please, please don't be furious with me," she said desperately. His hands were clenched into fists so tight that the knuckles were bone-white. "I'm sorry I haven't been honest with you from the beginning. I was so afraid you would hate me."

He continued to stare at her. No, it wasn't going well. He couldn't even speak. His mouth was firmly closed. She wondered if his teeth were digging into his lip. Perhaps she really had to spell it out for him to get a reaction. Maybe she had to say it. "It's just," she continued, desperately, "I've started seeing...him. Draco. Malfoy."

Before she could will any more words past her lips, he was on his feet, his hands still clenched. "How could you?" he demanded, his voice rough. "The prat who called you _Mudblood_? Who broke Harry's nose? Whose entire family has been part of You-Know-Who's inner circle for _years_?"

"I know you're angry, I know," she pleaded. "But please give me a chance to explain. Please, Ron."

"I _love you_!" His voice shook, with rage or pain, she couldn't tell which. "How can...how can you expect me to _accept _this? With _him_? You're with _him_? What is so _great _about that two-faced ferret? He's a _Death Eater_!" Perhaps he noticed the stricken look on her face, because he laughed hollowly. "What, don't tell me you didn't know! The Order revealed it all to Harry over Christmas when they were maintaining the wards around Malfoy Manor—"

"He's not any more," she countered angrily. She was on her feet, now, too, struggling to control her desperation. "Oh, for the love of Gryffindor, Ron, he's _changed_, isn't it obvious? The Order wouldn't let him into their good graces if they hadn't _scoured _his mind for any trace of continuing allegiance to Voldemort, they would never take that risk—"

"That's _fine_," he snarled. "That's fine! I'm fine with him _changing_. I'm fine with you not...not...not wanting to be with _me_. But why him?" A howl of anguish tore from his lips, his blue eyes squeezing shut as though he couldn't bear to look at her, his hands fisting his hair. "Why _him_, Hermione? Can you really ignore the bloody Dark Mark on his arm and forget about all the shit he put us through? About the past? Are you _trying _to hurt me?"

"No!" she cried. "No, no, no, I don't _want _to hurt you—"

"I deserve it, I bloody well know that, but I never thought you would do it! I never thought you would _try _to make me feel—like—like—like _this_. This is—this is horrible—"

"You're pathetic." Her voice shook. "How do you think it felt when you didn't speak to me for _months _because Crookshanks ate Scabbers? How do you think it felt when you didn't ask me to the Yule Ball, even though I waited and waited for you, even though I had to put off answering Viktor's invitation for weeks because I hoped you might ask? How do you think it felt when you were thrashing around with Lavender when you'd told me we would go to Slughorn's Christmas Party together?" Her eyes were streaming, her throat felt raw. "How do you think _that _felt? How often have _you _made me feel like this? Don't I deserve _some _little bit of happiness? Won't you let me at least have that?"

Perhaps she had stunned him into silence. He wasn't getting a word in edgewise any more.

"When you kissed me, I wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel something so much, don't you understand? I wanted to love you again the way I used to, the way I did for _six _bloody years, but he—he—I'd already forced myself to move on, don't you see? I thought you would never love me!" She let out a strangled sob. "I wanted to get over it so I could stay friends with you, and he was there, and he's so changed, and it's an absurd choice but I _like _him, and he cares about me—"

"He cares about you?" His voice was incredulous, hoarse, horrified. "He _cares_?"

"Why do you think he's been so polite to you and Harry all these months? Why do you think he tried for House unity with me? Why do you think he accepted the Order's protection? Why else would he tell you today that I'd sustained a concussion skiing, why do you think he acted so indifferent? He was trying to protect me, because he _knows _how much you matter to me, and he knows how much it will hurt me if you—if you—" She couldn't finish the sentence; another sob choked her, and she broke down completely.

It was thus that another entity stepped through the portrait-hole, his silver eyes flicking back and forth between the two, Hermione blind through her tears, Ron stiff and silent, hurt and furious. He immediately turned on Draco, his hand halfway to his wand before he restrained himself.

"Ah," Draco said into the silence, punctured only by Hermione's sobs. "I see she's told you."

"What the _bloody hell _are you playing at, Malfoy—"

"Don't," he interrupted coldly. "Don't hurt her more than you already have. What were _you_ playing at, Weasley? She was your best friend for six years, and you couldn't summon the courage to _act _on your feelings for her? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be _brave_."

"Please—don't—" Hermione's voice barely broke through the cries racking her. "Don't fight—leave, Draco—please—let me sort this out—"

"How can you _sort this out_, Hermione?" Ron growled. "This is a bloody _mess_. All you two do is disagree, all you've ever done is disagree! You can't be _seeing him_ and be friends with me and Harry—"  
"Potter has accepted her choice," Draco interrupted smoothly, his voice still cool. "So has your sister. They've both seen this coming for months. Have you been so blind?"

"You told me it was all a _ruse_," Ron snarled back at him. "In October, after Hogsmeade, you said it was just a game."

"I told myself it was!" Hermione's voice was an eruption of raw, shrill hysteria. "I was certain it was all just—just a stupid way to mess with Pansy and Blaise—but I can't control what I _feel_, Ron. If I could—" A fresh wave of tears overcame her. "I'm so sorry," she pleaded with him. "Please, please forgive me for keeping this from you. Please understand—I didn't do it to _hurt _you—I just—"

"You know what your problem is, Hermione?" Ron interrupted, his voice hard. "You have this thing for the underdog. You find the most miserable creatures in the world and try to help them, and it doesn't always _work_, some people can't be helped—"

"You weren't complaining when it was _you_ I was helping!" she cried. "And house-elves and Crookshanks are not _miserable_!" The cat leapt into her arms at that moment, turning a disgruntled gaze on Ron. "_Everyone _deserves a chance, Ron!"

"I can't—no." His fists were clenched again. "You're choosing him."

"Stop making me choose! It doesn't have to be a choice!"

"We'll never be best mates, it's not even _possible—_"

"I'm not asking for that! Polite acceptance, some sign that you don't—that you don't _hate _me—"

"_Hate _you?" The anger had gone out of him; for a moment, he looked quite broken, a defeated man. "I _wish _I could hate you." Without another look at her or Draco, he strode from the common room, letting the portrait slam behind him.

The silence suffocated them for a moment. Her sobs had subsided into quiet tears, streaming swiftly down her face, forming rivers as she clutched Crookshanks to her chest. "It could have been worse," Draco pointed out.

Her brown eyes turned on him, shining, devastated. "Worse?" she choked out. "How could it be worse? Did you see the look on his face? Do you have any idea how badly I've hurt him?"

A surge of anger crossed his features. "Go to him, then," he snapped harshly. "Tell him you didn't mean any of it. He'll forgive you and take you back with open arms."

She took a step toward him. "That's not—that's not what I meant—I don't _love _him, Draco—"

"Spare me, Granger." His voice was cold. "I don't need your bloody reassurances." He walked past her, not look at her, and slammed the door leading up to his bedroom.

The tears continued to stream as she buried her face in Crookshanks's fur. Term was beginning to look very dark indeed.

...

Draco couldn't sleep. No, how could he, when her tear-streaked face filled his mind, when the hurt on her features at his words was so plain there? He tossed the sheets aside; the air was cool in his room, but he was too hot, too uncomfortable. It was nearly one in the morning, and he was accomplishing nothing by laying here, stewing, worrying. _Worrying_. Now that was a new one, one that he knew he needn't bother with. Hermione worried enough for the pair of them. For the pair of them, plus Potter, Weasley, and then some, maybe.

He tossed the blankets off and strode to the bathroom door, listening. He thought he heard her ragged breathing, the kind that signified she had passed into fitful sleep after doing some more pointless worrying—and crying. Over Weasley, over him, over hurting people. She really cared too much. She really _felt _too much. And it was for that reason that he'd snapped at her, because his own insecurities about being with her were apt to spring up at the worst of times. She felt so much, and he wondered if he would ever be able to do that—to feel so full of emotion like it was clear she did, to show it like she did. Unlikely. He was still Draco Malfoy, last time he'd checked.

It was hard to believe that they'd shared a kiss in the shadows of the train station just earlier that day. Already, the moment seemed a lifetime ago, especially with the confrontation creating this space between them.

His strides ate up the bathroom in mere steps, and then he quietly slipped through the door to her bedroom, taking in her rumpled and restless form beneath all the tangled blankets. Without much of a thought about what would happen when she woke, probably still angry at him, possibly still upset, he straightened the blankets and slid beneath them, letting his body curl around hers. As his arm draped over her waist, she gave a little squirm, and woke with a gasp.

"Shh," he whispered, trying to sound reassuring. "It's only me."

Predictably, she gave another little squirm, trying to move out of the encircling arms of his embrace. "I'm not in the mood, Malfoy," her voice said, hoarse from sleep and the tears she'd shed.  
_Be nice. Just this once. Try to act like...like you care about her. Do what she does, for you. It can't be that hard._ Hesitantly, he towed her back into his arms, though she continued to protest, and nuzzled his lips against her neck. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her skin. The words came out easier than they had on previous occasions, and he nearly sighed in relief. If he was going soft, he may as well do it properly. With chagrin, he continued. "I shouldn't have gotten angry with you."

She had stopped trying to get away from him, at least. "I'm sorry I'm so torn up over Ron," she whispered thickly. "It's just, he's my best friend. I hate hurting him. I hate hurting Harry. I hate making them choose something that's uncomfortable for them just to accommodate me."

"Then why did you choose _me_?" he asked her, his voice probing. "You knew how difficult it would be."

She was silent for so long that he was certain she was rethinking her choice. Well, bloody hell, it would be easier for him, too. He could go back to being an insufferable git—it would be easy—and no one would be the wiser. Except that the memories of her warm, soft body in his arms would haunt him forever, much as he'd like to believe he didn't need her like that. "It wasn't a choice," she finally said. "It wasn't a conscious decision. It doesn't work like that."

"No? It seems like it would be better that way."

She rolled over to face him, letting her cheek rest against the pillow. "Did it work like that for you?" she asked, sardonically. "I don't see the benefit at all, in your case."

He wrinkled his nose. "Don't be ridiculous. Do you really think I'm capable of consciously choosing you, over my heritage, over my engrained way of life?"

She smiled sadly. "No." She paused. "But if it wasn't that, what was it?"

_Don't fuck it up, Draco. Say something nice. Tell her the truth. The way she makes you feel, the things you like about her._ He cringed, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her closer, pulling his other hand through her soft, wild hair. "It's...hard to explain," he muttered, ambiguously, as she looked up at him, her warm brown eyes staring into his guarded ones.

"I promise I won't laugh," she said, though she looked like she was on the verge of doing so. "And I won't tell anyone. Your big bad reputation will be safe."

He scowled at her. "No."

She frowned back. "Please? I really won't laugh. Or tell."

He was quiet for another moment, letting his hand fall from her hair to stroke her back. She sighed quietly, contentedly. "Every time you got angry at me," he said, abruptly, trying to force feeling into the words, "it made me feel like hell. And at the same time, I _wanted _you mad at me. It was so much easier. And you're gorgeous when you're angry. I'm not making any sense." He felt furious, frustrated. Why was this so hard?

"Tell me more." Her voice was quiet, but inviting.

"You always try so hard," he continued. "But you don't have to. You're good at everything, a natural. And you tried so hard to get along with me, even after everything. Even though we both can't help but just...always disagree with one another. It's...a relief. To realize that you would keep trying. It made me..." He shook his head. "You cared," he muttered. "You always cared. Sometimes I hate that about you. It really messes you up sometimes. But others..." He trailed off again, and grumbled in frustration.

"It's okay," she murmured, pressing her forehead to his chest. "Eventually..."

"You think?" he asked, propping his chin on her head. "Someday?"

"Someday, you'll tell me everything," she agreed. "For now, this is enough."

He listened to her fall asleep, his hand stroking her hair again. He had been resisting the pull of her for so long—had been resisting the pull of emotion for so long. It felt out-of-control to give in, to touch her in a way that was soft and gentle and didn't have to lead to physical gratification. To try to say the things he felt, the things he didn't know how to put into words. He'd never done that.

_Love_.

The thought was sudden and bold in his head, and he reeled momentarily in the idea of it. Was that what this was? He loved his parents, yes—wanted them to be safe and happy—but other than that safe, familial love, he hadn't experienced much of this emotion. Was this _it_? Did he love her?

He opened his mouth to try it out. She was asleep; it wouldn't matter. It would be a trial run. She wouldn't hear.

"I love you," he told her quietly, pressing his lips to her hair.

The words hung in the air around him, and he suddenly wished she was awake to say them back.


	27. influences

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-SEVEN

_influences_

Draco was stuck doing rounds with Pansy. He wasn't sure when he'd allowed himself or Hermione to put that down in the schedule, but he was certain that in his current state of mind, it was a bad idea. The girl had already been avoiding him for a few days. She made a point of talking to someone else at meals, didn't interact with him in classes, and generally refused to meet his gaze. It was unusual. Pansy wasn't like this. She was upfront, manipulative, a true Slytherin, but all she did these days was run and hide.

Hermione would say that this _was _Slytherin-like behaviour, but Draco knew better. Slytherins were cunning, yes, and they did tend to save their own hides, but he didn't see exactly how Pansy was helping herself by avoiding him. If nothing else, she was just accelerating his considerable temper. Soon, it was likely that he would snap at her, potentially destroying one of his necessary allies to keep up safe appearances within castle walls.

Maybe she knew that. Maybe she wasn't trying to save her skin; maybe she was trying to ruin his.

The first hour passed in silence; their wand light was the only thing passing over the corridors. His kept his tongue in check with petty effort, fighting to treat her with cold, simple indifference and nothing more or less. They saw very little, other than the occasional ghost, and they were lucky enough not to run into Peeves. Draco began to hope that they would get right through all three hours without losing his temper. Maybe she would never acquire the bravery to start conversation or try to maintain it. He certainly wasn't inclined to forgive her for sending him Amortentia-laced sweets, and he wasn't sure what else there was to say to her, given those circumstances. It was clear to him now that they had never been friends, not in Hermione's definition of the word. They had been allies. They had occasionally slept together. They had occasionally had a thing. But none of that had to amount to any sort of _affection_. Sometimes he felt truly jealous of Hermione.

Pansy's voice broke the silence before Draco could really fully appreciate it. "You should have this back."

He turned to her, frowning, to see her holding out the trinket he'd sent her for Christmas: a small but perfectly accurate globe of the stars, with the earth centred inside the celestial sphere. "I don't want it," he reprimanded. "You love astronomy. It's yours."

Her eyes were dark, so deeply green they were nearly black. "Why haven't you confronted me?" she asked, her voice still very flat.

"There's nothing to say."

"I saw you kiss her."

He frowned more deeply. Hermione might have told her friends, with the strict understanding that they wouldn't go screaming to anyone else, but he wouldn't put it past Pansy to spread the word just to ruin his reputation and try to get him to come back to her. "Who?" he asked, his voice politely puzzled.

"Granger. At King's Cross. She spent Christmas at the Manor with you, didn't she?"

Draco raised his eyebrows pointedly, and nodded to the globe she was still holding out to him. "Please keep it, Pansy. It was never meant to be a token of love, but one of friendship. I'd have thought that that much was quite clear by now. You deserve someone who will be attentive, who will pamper you, and I will never be able to be that." His eyes flashed. "Even if you feed me Amortentia-laced sweets."

She cringed, but didn't back down. "She told me that you fancied me."

"And so she was certain that I did. She was quite insecure in her own affections for me, and was sure that I didn't return them."

"But you must, having invited her to meet the wrath of your mother."

"I don't really see that you're in any position to make accusations at the moment," he countered, and her skin visibly darkened, embarrassed.

"I like you a lot, Draco," she murmured, as though defending herself.

"So much that you would impose yourself upon me," he answered dryly. "Yes, I'd gathered. From what I've heard, though, love, it's not about _control_, or at least, all the romantics claim that much. There's supposed to be some level of equality, I reckon."

"Why did you take her to Hogsmeade?"

"Again with the accusations," he repeated.

She crossed her arms over her chest, her wandlight striking a suit of armour at random. "I just don't see how we drifted apart," she said, her eyebrows knitted, drawing her pale face together.  
"It happens, darling. It was a bit childish, wasn't it? Juvenile. Would you really want to be with _me_ forever?" He smirked as she gave an annoyed sigh. "Much as you might think you do now, you'll change your mind. You already know I'm a terrible significant other."

"Yes," she huffed, "but you could change."

He raised his eyebrows. "Me? Change?" His chuckle was dark. "You think far too much of me, Pansy."

"Be that as it may...why Granger, Draco? I mean..." Her lip curled. "She's hardly pretty, and she's...well, she's certainly inferior to you. A _Gryffindor_." The horror in her voice was scarcely disguised. "How in Salazar's name did your mother accept her?"

His eyes lifted to hers, his mouth dry, but aware that his carefully-amused mask was still perfectly in place. His heart was racing, but he would not—could not—let it show. He had to lie—clearly, he had to lie. She had seen the physical evidence, but there was a way to salvage it. And she could never be trusted to know the truth. For a split second, Draco hated her for that. "Mother was too willing to accept what was given to her," he murmured, in a low voice. "I have no intentions of following her careful guidance."

Pansy's eyes darted to his face. "What does that mean?"

Draco gave a low, humourless laugh. "Do you really think that I would have _affections_ for that stupid Mudblood?" He nearly choked on the word, but it came out sounding like disgust. "She's not exactly attractive, is she? But if she feels something for me..." He hoped that the bloodlessness he felt in his face looked like conniving evil. "Why not take advantage of her? Why not _hurt _her? Mother's just pleased because she's given up on the cause, and a connection to Granger will put her back in the social circle she loves so bloody much." He shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets, struggling to put off an utterly casual appearance. "Salazar knows she's done enough to make my life miserable all these years. This is just retribution. I can't believe you'd think so little of me." He laughed again, a dark chuckle.

She was smiling, nearly jubilant, her eyes lighter again, gleaming. She flicked her dark, straight hair over her shoulder, and Draco found himself wondering how he had ever been interested in such a viper. _Maybe because I was one myself_, he thought, and felt immediately conflicted over the whole thing all over again. She wasn't even a _friend_; she would disown him for this simple fact, who he was sleeping with, if she knew the emotion behind it. "That's my Draco. I was afraid..."

"What? You really thought I'd fall for someone like _her_?" He snorted. "She doesn't hold a candle to you, Pansy." She preened. He resisted the urge to vomit. "I just don't see us...I don't see me with anyone. Not now, maybe not ever. But you and Blaise..."

"Oh, Blaise," she sighed, in a worried tone. "I'm sure I've used him far too much by now getting back at _you _for him to want anything to do with me! Even if I might like him."

"I wouldn't be so sure. He looks at you like a lovesick dog. Have you noticed that his usual conquests haven't been visiting him publicly? I doubt they're sneaking into his dormitory, either. If you gave him a chance, he'd come round."

She had, at last, pocketed the little globe. "I suppose you never know," she admitted. "But if you're doing this to hurt her, Draco, shouldn't you bring it out to the open?" Her eyes glittered with mirth. "Imagine her heartbreak when you disown her publicly."

His heart nearly stopped. _No_, his thoughts growled. _No, I won't be doing that. Never. I will never hurt her like that. _"I'd imagine," he answered drily, "but she will need a few weeks more convincing before agreeing to go public. She's quite convinced that the entire school will converge and kill us."

"I'll spread the word to the Slytherins about your game," she murmured. "Perhaps they can be part of the trickery, too."

…

He felt sick to his stomach as he staggered into their common room, yanking his sweater off over his head, kicking off his shoes, and pulling his belt out of his jeans. As he climbed the stairs to her room, he shivered, despite the warmth of the air, despite that he'd been too hot barely seconds before. Now he felt cold. Too cold. The t-shirt wasn't enough.

_At least she's off the scent. At least she won't spread the truth. At least Hermione is safe...for now._

He pushed the door open to her room and closed it quietly behind him. She was sleeping soundly, the blankets arranged smoothly, not tangled about her as they so often were. Without a second thought, he scrambled beneath the covers, moulding himself to her body, wrapping his arms around her. _I won't let them hurt you. I won't hurt you. _He buried his face in her wild hair and held down the shivers that threatened to tear into him. _I won't hurt you._

"Draco?" Her sleepy voice brought down hammers on his heart. She was only half-awake, but she turned to bury her face in his chest with a pleased sigh. "I missed you," she murmured, her arms reaching to wrap around him. He embraced her blindly in return, his eyes squeezing shut as he held her.

She seemed to sense that something was off, and lifted her head. Her warm brown eyes were becoming steadily more aware. "What's wrong?" she asked, reaching up to thread her fingers through his hair.

He shook his head, and leaned down to press a kiss to her lips. He felt her melt in his arms, press more tightly to him, and he struggled to keep the kiss soft, slow, tame, loving, pouring as much of what he felt into it as he possibly could. His hands ran gently through her hair, tipping her face up to his. He could feel her trembling. They'd never had a kiss quite like this before, had they? It had been so physical, for him, so hard to resist her, but that was the last thing he wanted right now. Her hands ran up and down his back, softly, as though soothing him, and he pulled her just a bit closer, deepening the kiss with their increased contact. He felt her breath catch.

Gently, his lips moved from hers to her cheek, and then to her neck, and then to brush her ear. She trembled. He pressed his mouth to her temple, and then to her forehead, and kissed her nose.

"Draco?" she whispered, uncertainly, as his lips hovered over hers.

"Just...shh," he whispered back, and pulled her on top of him. He felt almost as if he were drowning in her as he braced his back against the headboard, and he threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her gently but firmly to him. She sighed against his lips. His heart rose to his throat.

When she finally pulled back, only by a matter of inches, he stared into her warm brown eyes, currently searching his with sleepiness, confusion, and some hint of adoration that he barely understood. He wanted to say it again, but the words were stuck in his throat. Would she laugh? Would she run off? No—she must be feeling it too. She certainly _knew _what she was feeling. She would be so pleased that he returned the feelings that she would just get closer to him. She would become more attached. He was becoming less and less certain that that would be good for her. How could it be, when she would be the subject of violence for daring to date the Slytherin prince? How could it be, when he had his own plans that could get him killed, leaving her without him, missing him? How could it be better?

What was he thinking, anyway? Wondering what would be _good for her_...when had he ever done anything for anyone else?

_For my family_, he reminded himself grimly. _Only for my family._

It had to be for her, too. She had to have the best. She _deserved _the best, after everything she'd been through, and everything she'd done, not just for him but for everyone else. For Potter and Weasley, even. And he couldn't be sure that _he_ was what was best, for her. So the words stuck. He couldn't say them, couldn't force them past his throat.

But he hoped she had felt it, nonetheless.

Her fingertips were tracing his cheek. He closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. "Is everything all right?" she whispered, in a voice that was half-afraid.

He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, kissing the sweet skin there. "I had to do rounds with Pansy," he murmured. "She saw us at King's Cross."

He felt her still in his arms, felt her stiffen, and longed for her to melt, to soften against him again. "Oh no," she mumbled weakly.

"I threw her off," he continued. "I told her I was using you, doing it to please my mother. That I planned to eventually hurt you. She believed me." He couldn't believe the disgust that filled his tone. He wondered if she knew that it was the disgust that he felt for himself. Using her—as if he would have the presence of mind to do that to _her_, when her mere existence was beginning to rival the pull of gravity.

"Mmm," she murmured thoughtfully, her hands now stroking his hair. "I'm sure she's spreading the word among the Slytherins right now. Imagine how happy they'll be to see little miss know-it-all to get what she deserves."

His head jerked up, his eyes boring into hers. "I'm _not _using you," he told her, his voice more sharp than he had intended, but she smiled soothingly at him.

"Shush. I know you aren't. Sometimes..." She hesitated, then shook her head, and he wished he hadn't recently acquired a conscience, so that he could break into her mind and see what she was thinking. "No matter. We'll have to give them a show, won't we? Eventually?"

He stared at the glimmer in her eyes, and smiled, uncertainly. "You could have been a Slytherin yourself."

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Intelligence always shares a volatile border with the ability to manipulate."

He pressed her down into the bed again, his lips going to her neck. "You know," he muttered, his teeth grazing her skin, "I reckon I've had a bit of a bad influence on you."

Her soft peal of laughter was her only answer.


	28. trust

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-EIGHT

_trust_

An owl was tapping on her window. It was eight in the morning on a Saturday, a Saturday she had planned to use to sleep as long as possible beside the god in bed with her, and an owl was intent on destroying that plan. She gritted her teeth and kept her eyes firmly shut, but the tapping persisted. Draco, predictably, stirred. "Whassanoise?" he mumbled into the back of her neck.

"Owl," she griped, tensely, still ignoring the oblivion out of the creature. The tapping grew a bit louder. He groaned, and she realized she had no choice. She wrenched her eyes open and slid from his arms and out from under the covers—he made some more unhappy noises—and shivered as she made her way to the window.

It had only been three weeks. It wasn't as if she expected this owl to carry a promise of reconciliation from Ron. She was certain he wasn't at the stage of forgiveness yet. And if he _did _apologize, wouldn't he do it in person? It was horrible and painful avoiding him all the time. She was unable to sit with Harry during classes, because Harry was trying to talk Ron around, and that was impossible to do if it appeared that he was on good terms with her—or any terms at all. Draco was off-limits, too, since they were barely polite acquaintances to the eyes of the general public. She was spending far too much class time with Ernie MacMillan, who was too pompous for his own good, and felt that if she had to sit alone at meals one more time, she would have a mental breakdown.

And soon—too soon for her to be ready for it—she and Draco were going to allow their relationship out of the shadows and corners of the castle.

The whole situation was looking quite bleak.

She let in the owl. It fluttered down to the back of the armchair in her room, hooting serenely and fluffing its feathers importantly. "Oh, no," she said aloud, reaching for the letter clutched in its beak. Relieved of its burden, the Barn Owl flew back out the window, which she slammed shut behind it.

Slightly more awake now, Draco asked, "What is it?" Grogginess still dragged down his tone.

"I think it's a letter from McGonagall."

"Come back to bed," he groaned. "You can read it over here."

She was more than happy to oblige, crawling back beneath the covers as she split the parchment envelope open at the wax seal, shaking the sheaf within loose. It was written on official school letterhead, from Professor McGonagall, and it requested her presence at the Headmistress's office immediately. The password to the stone gargoyles was given at the very bottom. Draco, who was reading over her shoulder, gave a soft snarl. "I refuse," he said darkly. "You're not going anywhere."

"That's childish. She'll probably give me detention if I don't turn up soon." Before he could pin her down, she slid back out from between the covers and went to her closet to dig out jeans and a jumper, sliding into them as quickly as possible to regain warmth. It was nothing compared to sleeping next to Draco, but for the moment, it would have to do. "It won't be that long until I'm back, and then..."

"I'll nick breakfast from the kitchens," he volunteered, his eyes avoiding hers as he settled back under the covers. "Since you insist on being a teacher's pet and depriving me of one of the few comforts I have in life." She recognized the softness beneath the too-hard words, the way he always sounded when he tried to do something nice for her and found it difficult to let go of old habits. It meant a lot. It meant that she wouldn't have to sit alone at breakfast. It meant that she could spend time with him, and that he _wanted _that. He couldn't help but be callous, but she felt the intention, and warmed in the glow of it.

She smiled as she pulled on her favourite trainers, though he was still frowning at the wall, not looking at her. "I'm so sorry," she said lightly, leaning over to kiss him goodbye. He was always stiff at first, but she was patient, and eventually, his lips caressed hers in turn. She found it difficult to pull away. "I'll try to hurry," she murmured, and left the room before he could say anything else. She could hear his annoyed sigh just before the door closed behind her.

The walk to the Headmistress's office was quiet. Still half-asleep, she thought of very little as she walked through the sun-striped corridors. The feeling of Draco's lips on hers still lingered, and she found it hard to believe that a month had already gone by since the beginning of their—their—relationship, for want of a better word. She liked to focus on the moments like the one that had just passed, with something as simple as a kiss involved, and to discard the more complex things that were plaguing them. The one horrible thing she didn't ignore was the Dark Mark on his arm; she could spend a few sleepless minutes each night just staring at the tattoo when he wasn't looking. She wondered if it was just her imagination, or if the tattoo was turning slightly blacker each day.

She gave the password and allowed the spiral staircase to take her up to the Head's office, where she knocked. "Come in," McGonagall's voice said from within the office, and she entered.

It looked quite different from how it had when Dumbledore had occupied it. It was much more barren, absent of the trinkets that had adorned the tables there in the past. McGonagall was not seated behind the desk; indeed, it looked as though it alone had been untouched since the Headmaster's death. Instead, she stood, and offered Hermione a seat at one of the small tables. She took the seat across from her, and looked at her sternly through her square spectacles. In that instant, Hermione had the sinking feeling that McGonagall knew everything.

"Biscuit?"

"No, thank you, Professor," Hermione murmured, barely sparing the biscuits a glance. "It's a bit early in the morning for sweets, isn't it?"

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"It's quite all right. Is there an emergency?" Somehow, she didn't think so, if biscuits were being offered.

"No, no." McGonagall surveyed her with a still-stern gaze. Hermione resisted the desire to frown back at her. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Miss Granger?"

It was Hermione's turn to raise her eyebrows. "What do you mean, Professor?"

She placed the cover on the tin of biscuits. "What is the nature of the relationship between yourself and Draco Malfoy?"

"Oh, Minerva...must you insist on this?"

Hermione started at the sound of the voice and looked up, toward where it had come from. But of course—Dumbledore's portrait was lodged high on one of the office walls, and he peered serenely down at them, his fingers bridged before him, his half-moon spectacles sliding down his crooked nose. "Oh," Hermione squeaked. "Good morning, Professor."

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he returned, though his blue eyes were still fixed on McGonagall. "It's really not our place, Minerva, to ask our students about their...personal inclinations."

"It's for her safety," McGonagall returned, shooting a sour look up at Dumbledore.

"What good can come of this?" he asked quietly. "She's old enough to make her own decisions. Draco has been accepted by the Order, has he not? Severus very thoroughly scoured his mind for the truth of his loyalties."

Hermione could tell by the look on McGonagall's face that she wasn't quite as satisfied with Snape's judgement as Dumbledore was. "She should fully understand the implications of this decision."

"Isn't _House unity_ what you lot were after in the beginning?" Both Professors turned to look at her, a twinkle in Dumbledore's eye, irritation all over the lines in McGonagall's face. Hermione couldn't help the frown overcoming her face now, and she directed it at McGonagall. "Well, congratulations," she announced, her voice a little sour. "You made us live together. You made us be civil. We were capable of friendship. And for a month, yes, it's been a little more than that. But isn't that what you wanted in the first place, Professor?"

"I merely thought it prudent to remind you that, despite the fact that Mr. Malfoy has accepted the Order's protection, he could still be quite dangerous to you. He employed Legilimency on you against your will—surely you do not trust him."

"Trust and love are not the same thing," Hermione said sharply, and she saw a smile playing around Dumbledore's mouth out of the corner of her eye even while McGonagall scowled.

"Love, Miss Granger? I thought you were more realistic than that."

Hermione flapped a hand impatiently. "How would you like me to describe it? I feel _affectionate _toward him."

"I can scarcely see how that is possible, given how he has treated Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and yourself over the last six years." Her voice, though stern, betrayed a hint of worry.

"He's changed," Hermione contradicted, shaking her head. "Surely you've seen it too, Professor? It was you who approached him about the Order's offer, was it not? And Professor Dumbledore believed him capable of repentance from the very start; that was the only reason he didn't have him captured or killed while he made blundering attempts to follow Voldemort's orders."

McGonagall's mouth was a very thin line; she could scarcely deny the truth of these allegations. "Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley do not seem pleased with your choice."

"Harry's trying to talk Ron around. It will take him a while. Ginny's fine with it all. And Ron _will _come round." Her voice was terribly defiant, much more so than it had ever been. "They should respect my choice," she added quietly. "Merlin knows I've been backing up theirs for years."

There was a knock at the door. McGonagall stared at it, the slightest hint of surprise on her face. Dumbledore let out a soft sigh. "You couldn't truly believe that he wouldn't get involved," the portrait pointed out quietly. "He's very concerned about Draco."

He entered without being told. Hermione could see the sweeping black robes even though she didn't turn to look at the man. "Leave," his cold voice told McGonagall, and after exchanging a look with Dumbledore, she didn't argue. She swept from her own office and shut the door behind her.

"Severus," Dumbledore murmured.

"Leave," the dark voice repeated, coldly, and Dumbledore, with a sad nod, sidled out of his frame.

Hermione had forgotten to breathe, and she sucked in a none-too-quiet breath as the man moved behind her, his black robes brushing the ground. They were unbuttoned over his plain black slacks; for once, the white shirt beneath them was visible. She didn't look up at the former Potions master, but she did speak. "You shouldn't even be here," she told him, her voice quiet but grounded.

His voice, quite contrary, was hard as stone. "What do you mean by that, Miss Granger?"

"There's a curse on your position in this school," she murmured. "I was certain that something would have driven you away by this term, sir."

He did not laugh. There was no expression at all on his face, which she had chanced a glance at. "The Dark Lord would not allow me to be so easily disposed," he replied, and there was no expression in his tone, either. "He made...contingency plans...in the event that his return to power was not immediately successful." He did not sit. He stood behind the table where McGonagall had been, facing her. She finally lifted her caramel eyes to meet his black gaze—the onyx irises that had always reminded her of cold and damp tunnels, utterly devoid of any warmth. "That," he continued coldly, "is not the subject of this meeting."

He had the terrifying ability to stand completely still. His fingers didn't twitch, his shoulders didn't rise as he breathed. Hermione wasn't sure he _was _breathing. She had always been a little afraid of him. Dumbledore trusted him, of course—and so the rest of the Order, and she and Harry and Ron, should too—but that didn't stop other, lesser mortals from questioning his loyalty. Hermione didn't question. He had continuously tried to save Harry's life—though he had clearly hated doing it—and that was enough for her. The Dark Lord certainly wasn't asking him to act the hero.

She had always been a little in awe of him, too. He was, perhaps, the single most powerful wizard she had ever met—other than Dumbledore, of course—and though he was terrible and cold and cruel, he was clearly brilliant. A good enough Occlumens to deceive Voldemort himself; it was mystifying to be in a room with him. "Draco is my godson," he said, his voice still very cold. "Since his mother has lost all sense, I am inclined to protect him."

"Well, that's nice for a change," Hermione murmured. "Everyone's so intent on protecting _me _from _him_, I'm pleased that _someone_ is concerned for his well-being—"

"Silence," he interrupted, his black eyes flashing, and she ceased at once. He continued in a tone that seemed barely civil. "Imagine my surprise when I was obligated to search Draco's mind for hints of his true loyalties. You had polluted his every thought. He refused to answer me on the subject, but he knew that I could see everything."

She stayed quiet, looking up at him with what she hoped was a polite expression.

"Imagine my surprise when I learned that you had accompanied him to Malfoy Manor for Christmas. Yes, the Order knows all about that. There are new wards crawling over every inch of the place. You, so dizzy with the taste of new love—" His lips twisted. "...missed it. It's not a secret with members of the Order, Miss Granger. They're quite furious with you, almost every last one of them, but they can't get at you here without it looking suspicious to the Ministry."

"Any messages in particular?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light, but his glare remained cold.

"I always had the impression that hidden under that loud mouth of yours there might be some true intelligence, if you could get into the world long enough to rid yourself of the habit of vomiting facts." She felt a blush creep from her neck to her cheeks. "What are your intentions with Draco? What do you _mean _by it?"

She stared at him, blankly. "What do I _mean _by it?" she echoed.

"Yes." His obsidian eyes bored into hers. "Are you exacting revenge for his treatment of Potter and Weasley—and yourself—over the course of your school years? Or are you too simple to realize the disastrous consequences this liaison could have for him?"

"Disastrous?" She was beginning to sound like a broken record. "No, Professor—this isn't revenge. We just...I just...like him," she finished, lamely. Severus Snape's eyebrows were one long, thing line, mocking her.

"You believe," and his voice was positively frigid now, "that you could offer him what he needs, do you?"

She felt a flare of temper shoot up inside her. "And what is it he _needs_, sir?" It was barely a question, and her voice's temperature had dropped to mimic his.

"Do you truly believe that you can handle all the demons of his past? Has he woken up screaming at night yet? Have you noticed how terrified he still is? Have you any idea at all what my godson has _endured_? How could you? Anyone who has not worn the Mark and hated it as we do does not know. You cannot hope to truly _understand _him. You cannot hope to soothe his fears. You will not be able to endure it for very long. Compared to _us_, you have lived a simple, thoughtless life. He will be devastated beyond repair when you leave him alone with the wounds you didn't have the patience to heal."

"Is that what happened to _you_, Severus?"

She wasn't sure what made her say it, in that tone, with his first name, but the fury that crossed his face was telling enough, and suddenly, a myriad of puzzle pieces fell into place. Why _had _Snape spent all those years protecting Harry? Why _did _he still loathe him so much? He had been a Death Eater first—what had turned him spy for the Order? She remembered a memory, a memory she had overheard Lupin discussing with Mad-Eye nearly two years ago, one that had shaken Harry. One that he had seen when he'd spied on Snape's thoughts, a memory that he had never divulged to her. She had respected his space, but she remembered what Lupin had said.

"_He always did love her. She confided it to me, once, but made me swear I wouldn't tell James—she was terrified that he would simply kill Severus."_

"_Does the boy know?"_

"_No. The memory was not clear enough to reveal that much. He would be furious, I'm sure. He's too like James."_

"That's why you've protected him—why Dumbledore always trusted you," she whispered, staring at the enraged man before her. He remained still in the most unearthly sense, but his muscles seemed coiled, ready to spring. "Because he was her son. And you _loved _her."

"You see, then, why I must demand that you make your intentions about Draco clear," he said, and his voice was so rough and horrible that it made her heart pound. _Love _had done this to Severus Snape? Love had made him so unbearable, had driven him to his bitterness, to his emptiness, to his coldness? No, she corrected herself, not just _love—unrequited_ love. She wondered why he was letting her see this clearly through his pretences; perhaps he truly did care about Draco. Perhaps he truly was convinced that she would hurt him beyond repair. "I do not wish my life on him."

She was aware that she was still staring, but she couldn't stop. "No," she found herself saying weakly. "No, I wouldn't either."

He removed his hands from the back of McGonagall's chair. "Then you must stop this. Leave him now, before you do irreparable damage."

"No," she repeated, shaking her head. "I love him."

The words hung in the air between them, so thickly that she felt as though they were knives plunged into the table. She thought, a little wildly, that it was something strange, to first confess that she _loved _Draco Malfoy to none other than Severus Snape.

"That changes things." His voice sounded dead. A flash of pain crossed his black eyes before it was masked again.

"It would have been different, wouldn't it, if she would have loved you?" Hermione said desperately, staring at him beseechingly. "You would never have fallen in with Voldemort." His lips turned in a snarl at the name. "I can help him. I _will _help him." He looked at her with unfathomable eyes. "I can prove it. Dig through my head like you did his. You'll see. I do. I love him." Her voice was raw.

"I would not violate you in such a fashion. Draco would undoubtedly be quite furious with me, and we are already enough at odds. I will not take this from him, too. I hope for his sake that you are true to your word. Do not under any circumstances reveal any of this to Mr. Potter." It was unmistakably an order. Without another word, he swept from the room.

…

"Dobby insisted that these were your favourite. Mental, that one. He wouldn't let me leave without making it a refilling platter."

A small smile graced Hermione's lips. "I should thank him. He's quite right." She overturned syrup on her favourite banana-nut pancakes, cut the first bite, and closed her eyes to enjoy the crunchy, fruity, sweet flavour of it. It almost made up for her meeting with Snape and McGonagall. Almost. The comfort of sitting on the floor before the fire beside Draco was better than the pancakes, though she wouldn't tell him that.

"Something's bothering you. You've got those lines between your eyebrows that you always get when you're anxious."

Her eyes snapped open again as she swallowed. Emotions were fighting across his face; she wondered if the battle was to let his concern show, or to hide it. She supposed that he had more difficulty showing emotions than hiding them. She cut another bite, thinking of how to summarize the meeting without compromising herself. There were so many things she couldn't reveal to him that had been said.

He was staring at her in irritation now, undoubtedly dying to know what she was thinking. "It was just...Snape. He's frightening." Draco snorted. "Oh, don't laugh," she implored. "He is."

"Yeah, well, he should be, shouldn't he? Most dangerous man in the world, really. He's the only one holding all the cards, you know. All those years hanging off the Dark Lord's arm...and Dumbledore's. And none of us know which side he's on. Aunt Bella never did trust him, but then, most of your lot don't either."

Hermione shrugged. "I do. I just find him terrifying."

His silver eyes narrowed. "You _trust_ him?"

The words came out in a low rush. "I realized why he turned spy for the Order, all those years ago."

He looked at her, one eyebrow half-raised. "And you love _knowing _things, don't you?"

"I don't know the _entire_ story," she admitted. "But I remembered something important, and it all suddenly made sense." He looked at her, clearly waiting for her to continue—resigning himself to it, perhaps. "He was in love with Harry's mum. Sounds like he had been since practically childhood. But she chose James, and they had Harry, and all. But then Voldemort _killed _her, and Snape couldn't bear serving him any longer, so he went to Dumbledore. That's why...oh, but you wouldn't know," she murmured, irritated. "Suffice it to say, Snape hates Harry—he's so like his dad, and Snape _hated _James—but he's done a lot of protecting him over the years." Draco was still looking at her. "What?" she demanded, a little annoyed now.

"Dad always said Snape turned spy _before _the Potters were killed," he told her. "That Snape was the one who gave the information that led the Dark Lord to go after them in the first place."

"What information?"

He shrugged. "It was a prophecy—that old bat Trelawney made it, can you believe that? It was supposed to contain information on how the Dark Lord would be able to kill Potter. Snape only overheard the first bit, or something..."

Hermione's eyes were round. None of it was anything she hadn't heard before, except for his final sentence. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh. That's...terrible."

"What?"

She had quite forgotten her banana-nut pancakes. "Poor Harry," she whispered. "Oh, he'd never forgive Snape if he knew."

Draco was impatient. "Knew _what_?"

She swallowed. "The prophecy didn't point precisely to Harry. It indicated a boy who was born at the end of July. There was another, but Voldemort interpreted it to mean Harry." She skipped over the details. "And _that _must have been when Snape turned. When he realized that Voldemort was planning to go after Harry, and his family...his mum. He must have demanded that Dumbledore protect her, and Dumbledore must have demanded a double agent. It all makes sense."

"And this is bothering you...because?"

She blinked, and exhaled. "It just seems horrible, doesn't it?" she asked quietly. "That his life could have been different, if he hadn't made so many mistakes, if she had..." She trailed off, biting her lip. "Maybe he wouldn't have suffered so much, maybe you wouldn't be suffering so much, either."

"Oh, I see," Draco said darkly.

She blinked again. "What?"

"You're having second thoughts," he said, anger becoming more visible on his features. "Because of what _that git _said. Because he's told you that I've got all these skeletons in my closet that are going to come marching out and _you're _not going to be able to handle it, just because _he _never found anyone who could."

"No—"

He leapt to his feet, his jaw set in a hard line. "Honestly, Granger, I never would have _invested _myself in this if I thought you were so damn _weak_. If just a few words from him could send you scurrying off...where is your Gryffindor _courage_?"

His words were a snarl. She was stunned only for a few seconds, but then rose from the floor, the stirrings of anger beginning in her, too. "Draco," she implored quietly, "I'm _not _having second thoughts."

"I _meant _this." He didn't seem to have heard her. "It's not _easy_ for me, but I've been trying, honestly, and you're—"

"Stop," she snapped. "Just stop. You're not listening to me!"

He paused, maybe only because of her sudden proximity to him; she had taken a few steps forward. "_What_?" he growled, impatiently.

"I'm _not_ having second thoughts, and I think it's rotten of you to think I am." She glared up at him. "I've already risked my closest friendships to tell them the truth about us, I've just stood up to both our heads of house and told them they can off themselves if they think they have a say in this relationship, and you don't even trust me!"

He swallowed, his silver eyes suddenly not furious at all any more. "No, it's not that," he muttered.

She propped her hands on her hips. "Then what _is _it?" she asked, her voice hard. "Because if you can't trust me, they're right, and this isn't going to work. I can only do so much. You have to help me here."

"I know," he replied, his features suddenly quite defeated, "I know, I know. It's just difficult, that's all."

"Well, it'll get easier," she muttered.

A storm of fists erupted against the portrait. Hermione started, her hand automatically reaching for her wand. Harry's voice sounded from the corridor. "Hermione! Open up, this is bloody urgent!"

Exchanging a bewildered, annoyed glance with Draco, she moved to the portrait and opened it. Harry toppled in, followed closely by Ron. Both looked quite white. The portrait slammed behind them. Ron's eyes had risen to meet Draco's, and the two glared at one another with all the cold fury they could muster.

"Look—none of us have time to be angry at one another any more," Harry implored. "We need you."

"What's happened?" she asked, shaken by the desperation in Harry's tone.

He shook open the paper he'd been carrying. A picture of Bellatrix Lestrange was plastered across the front of the Daily Prophet, alongside several smaller photos of Lucius Malfoy, Augustus Rookwood, Walden Macnair, Fenrir Greyback, and Antonin Dolohov, and various other known Death Eaters. "There's been a mass break-out," he said, his voice hoarse. "Malfoy...the Order isn't telling us enough. How dark is the mark?"

Draco yanked up his sleeve. The serpent and skull on his arm was smoky, but only just more so than it had been a week or two ago. "Not dark enough for the Dark Lord to have orchestrated this. Azkaban's security is undoubtedly suffering from the lack of dementors."

Ron was staring at the mark in something akin to horror. "Is he _alive_?"

"No," Draco replied curtly. "It would not be so faint if he were. This is similar to how father's was, shortly before the Dark Lord was reborn. Unless something has changed. Unless he is purposely staying quiet. It would take him a good deal of self-restraint."

"Whatever's going on, we're running out of time." Harry looked pointedly at Hermione. "We need to talk. We need to act."

"On _what_?" Draco interrupted sharply, and she turned to look at him. His eyes were darkening, suddenly thunder-cloud grey instead of silver.

She swallowed, and closed the space between them. "You have to trust me," she whispered, her brown eyes locked imploringly on his. "This is something you can't know. Not just for your safety, but for the sake of everything. Trust me."

His eyes searched hers. "It's quite dangerous, I take it."

She nodded, still silently pleading with him.

"We'll talk later." His fingers slid into her hair and he pulled her against him, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, before he picked up his school bag and left through the portrait-hole.  
Harry looked quite nonplussed by the display of affection, Ron quite blank, but neither chose to say anything about it. "We have to start finding those Horcruxes," Harry said firmly. "Now."


	29. dangerous

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-NINE

_dangerous_

Hermione's stomach seemed to be permanently ill at ease. Since the bite of banana-nut pancakes that morning, she hadn't had a single thing to eat—they'd been far too hard at work for her to think about food. Now that she was thinking about it, though, all she could think was that she wasn't at all interested in eating. She'd had nothing except that single bite of pancake, all day, but she couldn't think of anything that sounded appealing, or that wouldn't result in her throwing up. It was quiet, for the moment. The feeling of shock was seeping into all three of them. They'd been thinking and talking and planning for so much of the day that it hadn't even occurred to them what they were about to do.

"We're about to kill bits of Voldemort's soul," Harry said aloud, hoarsely. "With all of his followers out there on the loose."

"At least you've _killed_ a bit before," Ron groaned, flopping back in his armchair. _Draco's_ armchair, Hermione reminded herself with a pang of dread and annoyance. "I haven't even _touched _one."

"I was twelve, I hardly knew what I was doing, did I? Speaking of which, we need to get into the Chamber and get our hands on some basilisk fangs soon, since we certainly aren't going to use Fiendfyre to destroy them." Harry looked defeated. "I wouldn't even trust Hermione to control it."

She shuddered. "I couldn't. It's too Dark."

"Speaking of Dark..." Ron leaned forward. There was an ugly look in his blue eyes disguising everything else. "He had to have something to do with old Lucius getting out. You-Know-Who isn't even alive...they had to have had help."

"Draco had nothing to do with anything," Hermione replied sharply. "He's on our side now. Give it up, Ron."

He shot a look at Harry, but said nothing further. "Look, 'Mione, we'll see you tomorrow. We'd better get this over with as soon as possible. It's going to be hard enough getting away from school—we're going to need to start early." Harry got to his feet, clearly ignoring Ron, who was looking quite sour.

"I'll meet you in the entrance hall." Hermione didn't get to her feet, instead staying immobile on the floor. "We should all try to get some sleep tonight."

He nodded, something tired and annoyed lingering about his eyes. Ron followed him out. Hermione let her head fall into her hands, her mouth suddenly going dry, the feeling of nausea becoming suddenly all the more stronger. Her eyes were wet, perhaps just from the stress of it all. She didn't budge from the floor. She suddenly felt that she couldn't even if she tried. Her body was so heavy that there wasn't a chance of her dragging herself to her feet. The boys would have to be on their own tomorrow.

She felt a pang of terror. _Tomorrow. Oh, tomorrow._

She was not immobile. No matter how childishly Ron was behaving, no matter how frustrated Harry was acting, she could not abandon her two best friends to face a bit of Voldemort's soul alone. She would be there at their sides. She would ignore any jibes Ron had for her in the morning. It all meant nothing. Nothing in the face of what was about to happen. If there were escapees from Azkaban, yet again, something horrible was coming. Perhaps Voldemort wasn't rising again, but he must be on the verge. His followers must be determined to find him. Victory had just barely slipped from their grasp in the last year, after all. They must be certain that, if they could find him, resurrect him, they would triumph this time.

The portrait-hole opened with a creak. There was a book bag dropped to the floor just inside. It closed again, just as softly. She was not immobile, but she did not want to look up. She did not want to say a single word to Draco Malfoy at this moment, because she knew exactly how hard he would struggle to drag the truth from her, and she could not breathe a word of it. For his sake. For hers. For the safety of the entire world. For the sake of life to continue. Even if she died in the task and never told him any of the more important truths in her heart.

"That can't possibly be comfortable."

He always did have to point out the obvious, didn't he?

"Come on. Let's go upstairs."  
She made a noise, the disconcerted kind, and didn't bother trying to lift her head from her hands. She heard him kneel beside her; gently, he pulled her hands away from her face, then cupped her cheek in his hand, turning her to look up at him. She felt her breath catch just momentarily in her throat when she first glimpsed his silver eyes, initially full of wary unease and concern, then smoothed over into something more imploring. It didn't matter how he looked at her; her heart still beat a pace or two faster. She remembered their interrupted conversation from that morning, his fury, his annoyance at the hint of her seeking an out. Perhaps he cared more than she understood. Perhaps she was doing him a disservice by not trusting him with this information.

No. Voldemort, if given the chance to find his renegade follower, would wring the information from him with a vengeance that would do neither of them any good.

"Please, Hermione."

It was the combination of her name and the polite request that roused her. Nodding, she dragged herself to her feet. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the stairwell to his room. It was not until they reached his room and the door clicked shut behind them that he spoke any words at all. When he did, his arm dropped from her shoulders, and she ached at the loss of contact.

"And you won't tell me?" His voice was low, but sounded strained. "Not a thing?"

She shook her head, slowly, her eyes watching him worriedly. "I wish I could," she whispered.

His face was hard, his eyes chips of flint. He paced the floor, but she couldn't move from standing just inside the door. "You expect me to just...just accept this?" he demanded, his voice tight.  
"Draco, please—I can't say a word. You would be infinitely more valuable to the Dark Lord if I did. He would seek you out if you knew a drop of it. I'm trying to protect you, can't you see?" Her voice was high, anxious, and the glance he spared her betrayed a flicker of concern. He was at her side again, his fingers touching her cheek.

"It's not that." He hesitated. "I don't..." His features twisted, as though struggling to find the words. "I don't want you to be in danger. And it's quite dangerous, you said."

"Possibly the most dangerous thing I've ever done in my life, and I've done many dangerous things," she whispered, feeling a thrill of horror as she spoke the words.

"How can you expect me...how could I _let _you walk into something like that?" His words were rough, and he stared down into her face, his fingers tracing a gentle path along the curve of her cheek. "In good conscience, how could I accept that? Do you think I don't care for you at all?"

She stared back at him. "Oh," she whispered.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose I'm not very good at showing affection," he commented, dryly. "But I'm trying, Hermione."

Thought had fled her. She wanted to kiss the lips that were smiling, however crookedly, at her. She leaned up to do just that, her lips pressing insistently to his, her arms wrapping around his neck. A noise of surprise escaped him, but his arms wrapped around her waist just the same, drawing her against him. The kiss deepened. Recovering her presence of mind, she pulled away just long enough, ignoring his disgruntled groan.

"Tomorrow," she whispered. "We start tomorrow. I should be back by nightfall."

His hands threaded into her hair, and his lips pressed a kiss to her forehead. "If something horrible doesn't go wrong, that is. What are your chances, do you reckon?"

She managed a weak smile. "As horrific as ever."

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. It wasn't until he was leaning over her, his lips a centimetre from hers, that he spoke again. Her chest felt pleasantly tight with anticipation, and it was easy to forget that she might be willingly going to her death the next morning. "I suppose I should give you a proper send-off, then."

…

He had felt nothing like it, not a shred of that emotion until this moment, it seemed. What he had considered love before had been a joke. This was love. This feeling like he would simply cease to be if she never came back, the feeling that he would never forgive himself for letting her willingly walk into dangerous waters without him. The feeling that no word or gesture could possibly show her exactly how much he needed her to come back.

Her exhaustion overrode her anxiety, and he watched her fall asleep beside him, his chest tight as he stroked her hair, trying to soothe her. It hadn't been...well. He couldn't say anything it hadn't been. It had felt _comforting_, and he wasn't aware that sex could feel like that. It certainly hadn't been sex as he'd ever known it. It had felt like something different. Something completely alien, the softness of it, the slowness of it, nothing demanding or hurried about it, and he wanted it back. He wanted to know he would have it again. He wanted to know that she wouldn't be gone forever, leaving him empty without her.

It would have been the perfect time to try the words out while she was awake, but he still couldn't say them. Hopefully he would get another chance. He would tell her when she returned. He would force himself. And she would return. She wouldn't leave him a mess behind her, unable to bear himself for being such a coward. She was much too good to do anything of the sort.

This was the real danger, he was certain. Not going off on a mysterious errand, one that could get her killed, but this feeling. _Love_. That was the real danger. This was why people threw themselves off towers and risked their lives on some girl who should be insignificant but just wasn't. It should be made illegal. But then, he had never felt that he understood the word _happiness_ until knowing that particularly dangerous emotion, and he wasn't sure that he would give it up, even it if was safer for all of them.

She shifted slightly closer to him in her sleep, and the feeling in his chest tightened. No. He wouldn't give it up for anything. He wouldn't give _her _up for anything. That much was clear. He was incapable, he was selfish, and it would be too painful to let her go.

She would come back. She had to.

…

When he woke, she was gone.

There was merely a slip of parchment where she had been in bed.

_Draco,_

_I'm sorry. If this is goodbye, I just wanted to leave it how it was last night._

_Hermione_

His eyes burned, and he crumpled the parchment in his hand. Nightfall was how long he had to wait, and it was barely dawn.


	30. the drink of despair

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

THIRTY

_the drink of despair_

Dawn on the coast of an iron-grey sea was not pleasant or beautiful. It was terrifying. Hermione shivered, bundling her jacket more tightly around her. At the moment, she wasn't sure whether to be pleased or terrified that she had gotten the location just right on the first try. It might have been better had they gone astray and not barged ahead with the plan, but then...there were some things that had to be done. Especially with a load of Death Eaters on the loose, and Voldemort's return inevitable.

Ron gave her an impressed look. It seemed he couldn't help himself, despite the disgruntled way they had left things the night before. This at least boded well for their friendship, if there was a future for them after this trip. She tried not to think that it was even an option, but she couldn't help but feel, at the moment, that they might be going to their deaths. "Nice one," Ron congratulated, bringing her out of her worries as he, too, burrowed further into his jacket. "No way in hell I could have managed that on my first try."

She shrugged, her breath misting out before her. "Perhaps we should have waited until warmer weather arrived," she pointed out. Her teeth were already on the verge of chattering. "As we can't Apparate straight into the cave, we're going to have to swim, you know. It's bound to be quite frigid."

Harry shrugged. He was already tucking his glasses into his pocket and stowing his wand in the waistband of his jeans. "You know a good spell to keep us from dying of hypothermia at the end, right? As long as we can swim for it and get through, and if we get dry at the end, I think we'll be all right."

Hermione didn't fancy the idea, though she couldn't see any other choice. Conjuring boats, even small ones—ones that would carry all three of them and yet fit through the narrow crevice that led into the cave—would not be a viable option. "We should go now," she suggested, pulling her hair back into a knot. Her wand was already tucked into her belt, lodged there quite securely. "The tide will come in soon if we wait too long, and we need time to get back out."

Ron cast her an anxious look, and she read clearly what it said: _If we get back out._

There was a moment, as all three of them stood on the rocky shore, that they contemplated not returning. Harry broke the silence. "Yes, we need time to get back out," he said, grimly, and stepped to the water's edge. The steely waves were small, at least, and wouldn't pose too much of a problem to reach the cave. Hermione followed close behind as Harry waded out, and she heard Ron's small yelp as the freezing water rose higher and higher. Hermione had to start swimming first; the boys were much taller than her, and kept wading until the water reached their chests.

It seemed endless. Already exhausted by the cold, Hermione forced herself to keep swimming, slowly, steadily forward against the tide, keeping her eyes trained on Harry's form right in front of her. Occasionally, she felt Ron's hand brush her foot, and was reassured that he was still close behind. They finally reached the crevice and plunged into it, going much more slowly now. Harry had lit his wand and was holding it between his teeth, and Hermione did the same. Their lights shone against the wet, black stone surrounding them. It was uncomfortable, the sense of claustrophobia unbearably strong.

Their lights expanded as the narrow pathway into the cave ended. Harry staggered out of the water, dripping wet and shaking from cold as the stale, still air swirled around them. Her teeth gritted against the chattering, Hermione cast the warming spell first at Harry, who shivered in relief as his clothes and skin steamed dry, and then at Ron, who looked similarly happy with the results. Shaking the loose strands of her hair out of her eyes, she turned her wand on herself, muttering the incantation again. Her jacket, jeans, and sweater steamed out. The feeling was marvellously warm, and for a moment she felt truly relieved, until she turned toward the wall they were facing.

"You don't reckon this can just be it, do you?" Ron asked, kicking aside some of the pebbles on the very short shore.

"No," Hermione said, and then shuddered. There was a heaviness in the air, something that made goosebumps stand up on her flesh. She was covered in them, it seemed, head to toe. "Don't you feel it? It's as if it knows we're here."

He cast her a frightened look as Harry nodded. "Yeah," he muttered. "We've got to get through this wall."

"I suppose it can't be blasted open." Ron sounded viciously disappointed.

"Well, we could try," Hermione said, lifting her wand. "_Confringo_!"

As quickly as the solid rock before them began to dissolve, it pieced itself together again. It looked immobile and unimpressed as ever. With a sigh, Hermione moved toward it. "It's certainly not going to be that easy," she said, reaching out to touch the stone. "Voldemort's much cleverer than that, isn't he?"

Harry, too, reached out to trace his fingertips over it. "Maybe. What do you reckon..._ouch_!"

She turned as he leapt back. He was clutching at his hand. "Watch it," he warned, "the rocks are sharp."

She shivered, pulling her hand back. The air around them had suddenly become even heavier, and the place where a drop of Harry's blood lingered on the stone wall was trembling. "Maybe that's the key," she said, slowly, brushing her fingers against the rocks again.

"What?" Ron demanded.

She was already kneeling, digging around through the rocks on the beach to find a stone sharp enough. "I think it wants a sacrifice."

"You can't honestly—_Hermione_, what are you doing?"

Ron's panicked voice echoed in the cavern as she dragged the rock across her palm, letting the blood well up, and, in spite of the pain, slapped her hand against the jagged rocks blocking their way. The whole structure shuddered, the rocks collapsing away from them.

Ron had moved forward and dragged her back from the wall. "What the _fuck _are you thinking? Honestly—" He grabbed the rock away from her and tossed it back into the water, then uncurled her clenched hand to examine the wound.

"It's nothing, honestly. I'll be able to mend it in an instant when we get back, there's essence of ditany in the dormitory." Ron wasn't hearing it; he had torn off part of the sleeve of his sweater and begun to wrap it around and around her hand, applying pressure to the wound.

"It won't help any of us if you bleed to death," he muttered, seemingly quite annoyed, as he tied off the fabric.

"It worked," she pointed out, reclaiming her hand. It stung. She had made quite a deep cut, after all. But then, if a drop hadn't sufficed, she had wanted to be sure to give the wall all it wanted on her first go. She wasn't sure she had the stomach to make another cut.

"It did," Harry admitted, grudgingly, as she and Ron turned back to face the gaping opening before them. In the distance, a light glowed, far across the still surface of the water. Hermione repressed a shudder. "Suppose it must be out there by the light," Harry added.

"Who wants to explain how we're going to get out there to it?" Ron muttered, taking a step through the opening. A narrow shore stretched out around the edges of the cavern.

"Let's try and at least get parallel to it before we consider any other options," Hermione said; the sensibility in her voice was ruined by the quiver. Her hand clenched around her wounded palm. "Maybe it's closer from that shore than this."

Harry led the way. Hermione and Ron stayed close behind, keeping well away from the still, black water. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling, standing on end; she had to resist turning to look over her shoulder, to ascertain that they weren't being followed. _It isn't dangerous_, she soothed herself. _Well, the horcrux itself isn't, anyway._

"Which one do you reckon it is?" Ron's voice asked from behind her.

"Dunno," Harry replied, still cautiously picking his way forward. "Not that it matters. It's going to be a nasty bit of work either way." Hermione caught the flash of a strained grin as Harry turned his head. "I'm just betting it isn't the snake."

Ron let out a hollow laugh. Hermione half-wished it was the snake. At least it wouldn't require some dangerous spell or substance to destroy it; they could just chop its head off with any old axe, and be done with it.

They had drawn parallel to the light. It looked nearly as far away as it had at the opening into the cavern, but Hermione could just make out a small island. "How do we get out there?" Ron asked. "Swim again?" He made to stick a toe in the water, but Hermione snatched at his sleeve just in time.

"No, no, no," she panted, hauling him back. "You don't want to swim."

"I mean, we did it back there, didn't we?" he asked.

Wordlessly, she pointed. A yard or so out, just visible beneath the surface of the water, there was a corpse, shining eerily in the light from their wands and from the glow on the island. Ron gulped.

"Right then," he muttered. "No swimming."

"Inferi," Harry confirmed, looking as though he was struggling to fight down his revulsion. "Wonder why they haven't come marching out to attack us?"

Hermione shrugged. "We'll worry about it when it happens. Remember, Stunners don't have any effect on them; you'll need fire to drive them back. In the meantime...let's get out there."

"How?" Ron demanded again, his exasperated voice echoing around the cavern.

"He must have had a way to get to the island," Harry muttered, shuffling his feet close to the shoreline.

"I'm sure he can turn himself into a bat, or something, and just fly out there," Ron grumbled.

"Or he had a boat," Hermione murmured. "He must have entertained the possibility that someone besides himself might make it this far." She cleared her throat. "_Accio _Boat!"

There was a disturbance within the still lake, the sound of bubbling water as the surface nearest them contorted. "No way," Ron said disbelievingly as the tiny vessel emerged from the lake. "No fucking way. That thing is _tiny_."

"It isn't going to fit all of us," Hermione agreed.

"One at a time then?" Harry proposed. "Otherwise we risk falling into the water. I can go first."

"Then I'll summon it back," Hermione added.

"And then you'll go, and send it back for me," Ron said firmly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Before any of them had time to think too much about this plan, Harry declared, "Right. We're off then." He stepped purposefully into the boat.

He had to cramp himself up to even fit properly. It set off on its own, ghosting across the water. His wandlight grew fainter as he approached the middle. Hermione saw him step out of the vessel and take a few steps away before she summoned it. It returned to them easily enough, if a bit more slowly than she would have liked. "Maybe you should go next," Hermione suggested. "Summoning—"

"Don't be ridiculous. He needs you on that island. If I get stuck out here it's not such a loss." He managed a crooked smile even as he spoke the self-deprecating words. "Just don't cut yourself on anything else, eh?"

She smiled back, but it was a cramped and worried smile. "Right then," she agreed, and stepped into the boat.

She tried not to look at the water, knowing that only more corpses would be visible beneath the surface. She caught a sideways glimpse of a few of them every now and again, however, and it made the short journey desperately unnerving. What _was _keeping them at bay? She had a feeling it had something to do with the water, but she couldn't be sure. There were possibly many kinds of magic at work here that she hadn't a clue about, and that, more than anything, made her anxiously uneasy.

She reached the island and waved to Ron to let him know he could summon the boat back. As he did so, she turned to find the source of the light. It was a potion, resting in a basin in the very centre of the island. Green, and glowing phosphorescently—_how predictable_, Hermione thought—it was clear that this was the source of the light.

"Yep," Harry said tightly, as she joined him at the basin. "It's down there all right. Thing is, it can't be summoned—" he demonstrated; the surface rippled, but returned to its original stillness with an unnatural speed. "Try a vanishing spell, I'm terrible at those."

She tried. The potion didn't budge.

"You can't even touch it, though I didn't like trying," Harry said, grimly. "I can really only think of one obvious option."

"You can't be serious," she muttered, giving him an appalled look.

Harry shrugged. "If we were alone, it would be a problem, wouldn't it? What if it paralyses the drinker? They'd never get away then. And Voldemort would have time to figure out how that person discovered his secret."

"It's just so...primitive," she said, as Ron stepped out of the boat, looking quite relieved to be ashore.

"So, what's the plan, then?" he asked, as he joined them. "Green." He grimaced. "How...Slytherin of him."

"One of us has to drink it," Harry said, looking up from his consideration of the potion. "Only way to get rid of it and get at the thing at the bottom." He paused. "I'll do it," he added, beginning to tuck his wand away.

"No," Hermione said, firmly. "Of the three of us, you are the least expendable. So stop that right now."

"It can be me, then," Ron volunteered, lifting his wand. He conjured a goblet and glanced at the other two. "Shouldn't be so bad. What do you reckon it does?"

Hermione shook her head. "No," she insisted. "No. It has to be me."

The two of them turned to stare at her. "No," they both said, at the same time.

"Think about it," she urged. "If it paralyses the drinker, you'll have a much less difficult time getting me out. I'm lighter. And you two react much better to eminent danger." She rolled her eyes, despite the complete lack of humour in the situation. "I have a feeling that's next. There's a whole army of Inferi surrounding us. And I was the one who nearly let you two be strangled by Devil's Snare because there wasn't any wood, remember."

Before they could protest, she snatched the goblet from Ron's hands and it sank, easily, into the potion. She scooped it full, and lifted it from the basin. There was still quite a lot left. Both boys looked very white. "Hermione..." Ron began.

Not giving him time to speak, she lifted the cup to her lips. "Cheers," she sighed, cringing, and downed the goblet-ful of liquid in a few short gulps.

The last thing she heard before she could no longer focus on their voices was Harry's mutter. "Malfoy is going to be very fucking pissed at us."

...

She was going to die.

There was nothing for it. As the last of the liquid trickled down her throat, she could barely see. She was blinded by images and memories and horrors, and she was aching from thirst, and she had not even the ability to lift herself from the stone-cold ground. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she struggled to gasp for breath. Someone was shaking her, but his voice went in and out of coherence.

"Hermione! _Hermione!_"

She opened her mouth to speak, to respond, but wasn't sure that the muscles in her face were even working. The remnant of those memories was still cascading through her head, screaming, punishing her. Terrorizing her. They surged back if she stopped struggling against them for an instant. And she had to struggle. She had to struggle because she had something—someone—to go back to. Draco. She had to go back to Draco.

"We've got to get her back—"

"_Water_," she tried to croak out, but the sound barely emerged. Her throat was on fire. Sand was raking through her sinuses. There was no moisture to be found, anywhere.

"Water," Ron's voice repeated, relieved. "She's okay, then. Just...what, Harry?"

"We're going to have to get it out of the lake," Harry's voice came back. It was tight with anxiety. "_Aguamenti _isn't working."

Ron cursed. "Quick, then. There's dead people down there."

She tried to move, to sit up, but her arms and legs were like lead, and the memories were still batting around in her head—Draco, breaking into her mind that first time—Ron, shouting at her, so recently—crying herself to sleep all those nights in third year when they weren't speaking—the dementors at the lake—running from curses in the Department of Mysteries—

There was a whirlwind of noise, suddenly, and it wasn't in her head. The Inferi were rising, she was certain, but she couldn't stay conscious a moment longer without water. She was just glad, as she was swept into the black of unconsciousness, that she could hear their shouts. They were, at least, driving the dead away with fire.

…

"Just hang on, Hermione. We're nearly there."

Everything was cold, and wet, and she couldn't stop shivering, but the water that found its way into her mouth was cold and delicious, if too salty to provide any real relief.

…

Apparating was like being torn apart. She felt herself faint again as soon as they had reached Hogsmeade.

…

"Draco," she heard herself saying, faintly but firmly. "Get Draco. And Professor Snape."

"You've said it about a hundred times. We're nearly there. Harry's sent a message ahead to him." Ron's voice was grim.

"Just...make sure." Her voice was fainter. The waves crashed over her again.

…

When she woke, finally, she could feel herself breathe, like the wind rushing in and out of a giant bellows. It was easy to get wrapped up in so simple an action. It was easy to just focus on that, and not try to open her eyes. It must be nearly nightfall by now. She must have lost a great deal of time. It felt that way. The memories clawed at the edges of her mind, and she struggled to push them back. They seemed to be receding. She took another breath, and her sinuses were filled with the scent of pine.

Her eyes snapped open.

It took a few long, panicked moments for her vision to clear. There wasn't so much sound around her as the absence of it; everything was muffled, muted. She couldn't tell the emotions in any of the voices; she couldn't comprehend what they were saying. She strained to seek out the familiar one, the one she most wanted to hear, but she was certain that it wasn't there—though that scent, his scent, was all around her. Which left her with a perplexing thought: where was _she_?

Everything was slowly coming into focus, so she tried to sit up. An arm, like a bar of steel, pushed her back down to the pillows. Pillows—so she was somewhere comfortable. Somewhere safe, maybe. It was warm; she was beneath blankets. She turned toward whoever had pushed her down, seeking the identity. The background noise had faded. Perhaps there was no one there. Perhaps she was imagining things.

She blinked once more, and a face came into focus.

His features were twisted as he looked at her. The silver eyes seemed dead. His hair was ruffled, his clothes rumpled. The hand that wasn't holding hers lifted to touch her cheek. Feeling was coming back into her body, and she sighed softly, her eyes falling momentarily closed at his touch. "What were you thinking?" His voice was low, strained. "Merlin, Hermione, what were you thinking?"


	31. recovery

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

_recovery_

"Don't be angry." Hermione's voice emerged as a plead. "I have to do what I can, Draco." With some small difficulty, she opened her eyes, and her gaze fell on his forearm; his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the Dark Mark was clearly visible. It seemed to have grown a shade darker in her absence. "You know what it means," she whispered. "I'm invested in this. I have been since I was a child."

He roughly pushed himself to his feet. Her eyes followed him, but his gaze had turned away from her, out the window. "You can't keep doing this," he said in a low, forced voice. "You could have died. And Potter and Weasley were barely worse for the wear."

"My reasoning was sound," she contradicted. "They're better in battle. I knew that if I was the one incapacitated, we would all stand a better chance of getting out." She tried to sit up, but found herself to be far too weak. "Damn," she muttered, as a wave of nausea rolled over her, and she lay back, taking a deep breath. It did little to calm her suddenly roiling stomach.

His weight fitted itself to the bed, and his hand clasped around one of hers again. "What is it?" he asked, the low urgency in his voice barely disguised.

"My stomach," she muttered, now determinedly counting scratches in the ceiling. "It's just nausea. I'm sure it's only an after-effect of the potion—"

His hand twitched over hers, uneasily, but she didn't budge from her consideration; with another deep breath, she went on counting, building up the numbers in her head, desperately trying to ignore the rocking of her stomach. And then, as she felt the first almighty lurch, she knew it was no good. She was going to have to throw up, and there wasn't time to sprint to the loo, even if she'd been able to. Using up what was left of her strength, she lurched over the edge of the bed and hoped for it to be over quickly. Someone had put a bucket there, and she thought that that had been rather good foresight.

By the time it had passed, and her stomach felt quite empty, she realized that gentle hands were holding her hair back from her face, stroking and massaging her scalp as though to soothe her. The patterns he traced through her hair were, indeed, sufficient to lull her, but they paused as he felt her retching subside for longer than ten seconds.

"All up, you think?" he asked.

She managed a weak nod.

"Can you hold your hair? I'll find something for you to wipe your face with."

She nodded again, and lifted the hand that had been clutched around the bed-frame to keep her hair back. He got to his feet and immediately picked up the cloth on the night stand, dipping it in the bowl of water and wringing it out before sitting beside her again. He silently handed it over as she straightened with difficulty, and sighed in relief at the cleansing feeling it gave her.

"Thanks," she murmured.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, and she lifted her head to look at him. Dark shadows deepened under his eyes, and the orbs themselves were a dark, dark grey, no trace of silver or blue to be found. It was like staring at an emaciated version of the Draco Malfoy she knew.

"Have I..." she hesitated over her words. "Have I been here long? You look exhausted."

He nodded, a jerky motion. "You've been gaining and losing consciousness for about a week. This is the longest you've been awake yet."

For the first time, she noticed that she wasn't in the hospital wing. It was a small room with a wide window that housed her; the bed, however, had obviously been taken from the hospital wing.

"Where am I?" she asked uncertainly.

"We needed to keep you out of the public eye, and near Snape." His voice was brittle. "He's been trying to restore your health. We're in the dungeons, near his quarters." Her eyes flicked toward the window, which was beginning to show hints of sunlight, as though dawn were approaching. "It's charmed. A little healthier than being locked sub-surface for days on end without real light."

There was a shuffle outside the door, and then it pushed inward, revealing the imposing stature of the former Potions Master. His black eyes took in the scene: the moisture evident on Hermione's face, the bucket at the side of the bed emitting an undoubtedly foul stench. "You'll need to leave, Draco," Snape said, his eyes sweeping to his godson.

Draco was clearly not pleased about this, but didn't seem to have the strength to argue. He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. "Take courage, lioness," he murmured. "It's going to be an unpleasant few days."

She stared up at him, her eyes wide. "What are you talking about?"

"He'll explain," he said, and she saw a flash of pain cross his face, muffled only when the previously dead look returned to his eyes. "It's just going to take a bit to get you better, that's all. And you...you might not be in your right mind, for a bit, so I'm saying goodbye, for now." An unconvincing imitation of his familiar crooked smile hitched itself to his lips. "But in a few days, things will go back to normal."

She caught his sleeve as he went to turn away. "Draco," she said, desperately, uncertain of what to say, what to do to ease the agony that was outlined in his shoulder blades.

"Don't worry about me," he said, and with a last glance at her, gently pried her fingers from his sleeve and walked past Snape without a word.

She turned her eyes on the figure in sweeping black robes instead. "What did I drink?" she asked, quietly, as the door clicked shut after Draco.

Snape moved toward her, one hand reaching into his robes for the vials she heard clinking there. "It's called the Drink of Despair," he said, without his usual menace. There was, instead, a flat, dull note to his voice. "A speciality of the Dark Lord's. It causes the drinker to relieve terrible memories, among other physical symptoms. You have reacted to it...unusually."

She didn't ask another question, waiting for him to go on; she could feel herself begin to shiver. She hadn't noticed until then just how cold she felt. The nausea was beginning to stir again. As though sensing this, he Vanished the contents of the bucket with a wave of his wand. "An exact antidote is not available," he said, beginning to stand the vials upright in the rack on the night stand. "Typically, the effects would wear off of their own accord, but...perhaps this particular potion has matured with time." His scowl became more pronounced. "We will see your progress once this regimen is up, and determine whether further action is necessary."

The way he said it seemed to imply a previous regimen. "Have...have I already taken some antidotes?" she asked, looking up at his towering form.

His black eyes offered no comfort. "Many. They've had some effect. Otherwise you wouldn't be talking so much." In other circumstances, she might have found this insulting, or even amusing, but at present, she had no room for anything but fear. "However..." Without warning, his hand descended to her wrist, his fingers expertly seeking out her pulse. He then dragged her other hand to feel at the beat of her heart in her veins. It seemed wrong, shuddery, uneven. "You are still experiencing some arrhythmia, and it will do you great damage if it continues."

He released her. Her fingers remained over her own pulse, appalled at the ragged beating she felt there. Now that she noticed it, it was all she could focus on. "Is _this _the unusual response?" she asked.

"There are many components." He was lifting one of the many vials, and seeing that she was about to ask which components those were, he snapped, in something more like his usual voice, "Don't press. You can worry over the particulars later. For now, drink this. You won't remember, once it's over."

Not wanting to appear a coward, she took it from him and drank the dark potion in one gulp. Her strength left her; she slumped back against the pillows, her eyes falling closed. She swam in blackness.  
Before it swallowed her completely, she heard Snape's voice mutter, in furious tones, "Bloody _Gryffindors_."

…

There were whispers in the blackness, but she had to strain to hear them.

There were occasionally whimpers, and after a long time caged within her own conscious, she recognized them as her own soft cries of pain.

There were ragged voices, and one, in particular, that she longed to soothe. "Soon," the dragon said softly, and she wished she could respond with anything other than a heart-wrenching cry, one that she felt in his flinch. It radiated through her, that cringe, though she wasn't sure how. There was nothing substantial attached to her being. She just was. Not a body, but a thought.

…

The sunlight was burning across her eyelids when she next woke. She felt stiff, sore—but as least she felt something. Being disconnected, as she had been for that endless time, was too disconcerting to stand much longer.

"Her vitals are up. She's awake."

The dark, deep voice met only a breathless silence. With some force, she opened her eyes.

She was curled on her side toward the window, beneath layers and layers of blankets. The artificial sunlight streamed out toward her, warming her further. With a quiet sigh, she gently and gingerly stretched out her legs. The muscles protested. She flinched, but continued to unfold her legs. The quiet ache of moving was better than the endless, tightly-coiled tension that had taken hold of her body. She lifted her eyes from the window, and found herself looking into a bright, anxious face.

"How're you feeling?" Harry asked as she grimaced.

"A bit...well, stiff, but I feel fine." She didn't attempt to sit up, not caring to test her strength.

There was a steady chirping. She realized it was sounding in tandem with her own heart, and noticed, for the first time, the symbols that hovered just above her and to the left. They appeared to be made out of golden sparks.

"The arrhythmia has ceased," Snape observed as he swept into view behind Harry, who ignored him. "Perhaps the last regimen had the desired effect." His dark eyes turned on her, probing.

She took a deep breath, and felt her ribs expand painfully, as though she was severely bruised. "Where's Draco?" she asked, because she would know if he was in this room; he would be at her side, not Harry.

Harry tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, as though to reassure her. "He's been in a right state," he said in a low voice. "I don't think he's been sleeping. Or eating. He collapsed yesterday. Madam Pomfrey won't let him out of the hospital wing until he's regained some strength. The Dreamless Sleep helped, I think. He was his usual git self when I went to check on him a few hours ago."

She made an attempt to sit up, but didn't manage it; her head spun with dizziness, and she listened to the chirping of the gold sparks as her heart rate climbed. Harry's green eyes flickered to watch the golden sparks, and then turned on Snape, as though asking a question.

"I believe it's just her anxiety over Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, as though answering, his voice carrying the hint of a sneer. "Though it may be too soon to tell."

She slumped back into her pillow, feeling exhausted from the effort of trying to sit up. It was shameful, how weak she felt. Harry squeezed her shoulder as she looked up at him. "Could we have a moment, Professor?" he asked, his green eyes not leaving her face.

She felt that Snape may have been resisting the desire to roll his eyes, but he swept from the room, letting the door click shut behind him.

"Hermione, I'm..." Harry cleared his throat. "I'm so sorry. Letting you drink that potion was a horrible risk. One we shouldn't have taken."

She hitched a smile onto her lips. "I'll be fine, though, won't I? It's not as if I'm out of commission forever. Though I'm sure I'm dreadfully behind on preparing for N.E.W.T.s."

He shook his head, not smiling. "Only _you _would be worried about N.E.W.T.s at a time like this." He sighed heavily. "There's something you should know." Shifting slightly, he placed his hand in his pocket and pulled something out, letting it drop into her hand when she reached for it.

It was a locket, but she felt at once that it was not right. It seemed flimsy, weak. With a heavy heart, she cracked it open at the seam and read the worn parchment within.

_To the Dark Lord—_

_I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to known it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. _

—_R.A.B._

"Blast it," she muttered, resisting the urge to crumple the parchment in her first. "Damn it all."

"I'd understand if you never forgive me," Harry muttered, glaring at the locket himself. "All that effort, and the potion, for a fake horcrux. A dead end."

"We just need to figure out who R.A.B. is," she returned stoutly, staring at the parchment as though willing the initials to materialize into a name. "And there's plenty other horcruxes out there that have got to be destroyed. This wasn't a waste."

He sighed and shook his head. "Whatever you say."

"How long have I been recovering, now?" she asked, looking away from the parchment.

"About two weeks. The second regimen took longer than Snape originally planned." A dark, annoyed look crossed his face.

"What is it?" Hermioned asked, watching this expression anxiously.

"It's just...you'd think he'd give it a rest, acting the greasy old tosser, when he's trying to save lives or help us. But he's just as terrible as ever. 'Don't look at me like that, Potter,'" he mimicked. "'Don't address me in that tone, Potter.' 'Be thankful I don't tell the Headmistress how you decided to flout her authority, Potter.' Needless to say, we won't be seeking any other horcruxes until term's up, at least, not unless they're inside these walls." Harry rolled his eyes. "Fat chance of that, eh? But Snape claims that the danger is not eminent enough for us to go risking our necks yet. 'You didn't even consider consulting me, did you, Potter?'" he intoned, and Hermione released a strained giggle at how accurately he copied the professor's speech.

"He knows, then? About the horcruxes? I thought Dumbledore said..."

"Yeah, I thought Dumbledore said, too," Harry grumbled. "But maybe it was a deathbed sort of thing. He doesn't seem to know many of the details, just that he can't get in our way too much unless he sees fit." He made a face. "Which he sees it now. And when I told him we should get a move on anyway before we were in the middle of a war again, he just told me that you wouldn't be well enough to help out until the end of term anyway and that there was no possibility of Ron and I pulling it off on our own." He scratched at his hair. "I mean, I agree, but he doesn't have to make me feel like I've no abilities at all!"

"I'm not going to be well until the end of _term_?" she demanded in alarm, propping herself up on her elbow.

He shook his head. "No, no, not like that. He says that after some sleep you should be fine. He's got some potions for you to continue taking that should repair more of the…the psychological damage. The voices," he added, when she looked puzzled. "They're still in there, aren't they?"

She nodded; the wave of memories and tide of bad thoughts was far from her at the moment, but she could feel it, just beyond range of her consciousness.

"Just, he reckons we shouldn't risk gallivanting around when you're suffered this kind of damage—not right off, anyway. And he's right, much as I hate to agree with the berk," he muttered sullenly.  
She huffed and fell back to her pillows; it was too much effort to support herself. "Honestly, Harry. I'm sure he doesn't mean half of what he says. It's just habit, don't you think?"

"Nah," her best friend said grimly. "He hated my dad, 'Mione. And no matter what, I look like him, and let's face it, I'm quite a lot like him, aren't I? It's a grudge he won't ever let go." He lifted a hand to his scar and rubbed at it, frowning in thought. "Sometimes I think there must have been a reason they hated each other so much, but then I think of me and Malfoy, and I reckon it's like that, just bad blood or something."

Hermione released the breath that she had been holding. "Yeah," she said, with a nod. "I suppose you're right."

_Lily_, she thought, sadly. _Lily was why he hated James so much._

With a last squeeze, he let go of her shoulder. "I'll send the grouchy git down when he's released, shall I?"

She nodded, but at that moment, the door to the room reopened. "There'll be no need," a ragged voice said from the doorway. "He's said she can be moved back to the dormitory."

Harry got to his feet. Hermione tried to sit up, again, but Harry gently pushed her back down. She settled for rolling to her other side, the better to see Draco, who was looking at her, not at Harry.

"You're sure she's well enough?" Harry asked, as Snape returned to the doorway behind Draco.

"She's in no immediate danger," Snape's sardonic voice replied. "And she could do with natural sleep. She'll have to return to classes on Monday."

The silver eyes looked into hers. He looked better, after his forced stay in the Hospital Wing; the eyes were lighter, the shadows faded, some hint of colour back in his features. "We'd better get a move on," he said, "while everyone's still at Hogsmeade and doesn't notice you being dragged through the corridors."

She couldn't help but smile at that.

…

In the end, though she protested that she could walk, Snape had conjured a stretcher and floated her up to the dormitory. Perhaps it was because, though she demanded to be allowed to get there on her own, she couldn't walk five paces without collapsing.

She was happy enough when she was safely settled into her own bed, and Snape and Harry had left. She heard Draco seeing them off at the portrait-hole, and snuggled deeper under her covers, the ache in her bones beginning to return to her now. She hadn't focused much on it while Draco had been near, but now that he was downstairs, and she was alone, she realized just how sore she was.  
Was it an effect of being in bed for two straight weeks? Or just another side-effect of the atrocious potion? She shuddered at the thought.

It was suddenly quiet below. She heard Draco's soft footsteps, and wondered if this was the moment that he was going to berate her. Perhaps she could pretend to have fallen asleep, to stave off that terrible moment. In anticipation of this possibility, she closed her eyes and assumed the sort of stillness that came with sleep, though she wasn't certain that he would believe it.

The door to her room creaked softly open and closed. She heard him pause on the threshold, and there was a shuffle as though he was removing his shoes. Then there was a burst of air at her back as the covers lifted, and his warmth slid in beside her, his arm gently draping over her waist, pulling her body against his. He pressed his lips just beneath her ear, a soft, tender kiss that made her shiver.

"I know you're awake," he accused softly.

She gave a small wriggle, making herself comfortable in his arms. "I know," she muttered miserably.

"You really think I'm going to tell you off?"

She paused, and, with some effort, rolled over to face him. He kept her pressed close against him, so that she had to tilt her head back to look up into his eyes. "I'm not sure," she murmured. "Are you?"

His eyes seemed to tighten, and his hand lifted to stroke her cheek. His fingers tangled in her hair. Before she could speak again—to say what, she wasn't sure; an apology, perhaps—his lips pressed, with a delicious burning, to hers. It was at once sensual and sweet, welcoming and passionate. When he pulled away from her, it was only by the barest of centimetres. "I want to," he whispered. "I want to give you hell for what you put me through. I just can't seem to find the willpower."

Her eyes opened to stare into his. "Why not?" she asked.

His hand, deliciously warm, was cupping her cheek. A nervous, but real, crooked smile was turning up his lips. She traced her fingertips along it, smiling herself, without knowing why.

"You're distracting," he said, his voice low. "I could work myself up into a rage while I was away from you, but while I sat at your bedside I couldn't feel it. All I could do was worry that you would never wake up and be yourself again. Why would I waste the time berating you, when any moment you could dash off again and that would be the last of this?"

She shook her head. "There won't be any more dashing off, at least until the end of term. Snape's grounded us. Seems to think Harry and Ron aren't capable of accomplishing anything without me, and that I'm not up for 'gallivanting'." She snorted.

He was quiet for a moment, his fingertips tracing her cheek, but then his gaze sought hers again. "But this will happen again."

She paused, and then nodded, her chest tightening.

"And someday you might not come back."

She tried to give him a reassuring smile. "Don't be so worried. I can take care of myself. I survived this round."

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her nose, then to her cheek. As his lips strayed nearer to her mouth, she felt her chest tighten further, in a pleasant sort of way. "I'll never forgive you if you don't come back," he breathed, his lips very close to hers. "I'll never forgive myself for letting you go."

"That's silly," she whispered back. "You can't blame yourself."

There was a pause, and then he nodded. "Of course," he murmured, his hand tightening in her hair. "I'm being quite ridiculous."

She was sure he was just saying that to pacify her, and her suspicions were confirmed when he added, "Perhaps you should try to sleep."

At the mere mention of sleep, a yawn threatened to overtake her. "I'm not tired," she grumped, looking at him beseechingly.

He smiled. "You're a terrible liar."

She sighed. He rolled onto his back, and she settled her cheek against his chest, comfortably moulding to his side. His arm wrapped around her. "You're just terrible, period," she grumbled into his t-shirt.

He chuckled darkly. "Sleep, lioness," he told her, his fingers beginning to trace soothing patterns in her scalp again, and slowly, unwillingly, she dropped off to sleep.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Fuck me, but I'm getting really distracted by Snape/Hermione fanfiction. Next project, anyone? But I swear I won't start it until I've finished this.

Also, on a more personal note, I'm doing alright on the personal front (har-de-har-har, that was practically a pun). I've been offered my choice of psychological illnesses that I might be suffering from, but it's a bit too soon to tell, and I've been told for now that doing what I do-i.e., writing copious fanfiction among other things-is my own coping mechanism that I should try to utilize as much as possible. Thus, this new, big, fat chapter, and hopefully more to come soon, now that midterms are FINALLY FINALLY OVER.

Oh, and thanks especially to **Katte**, whose review the other day goaded me into writing a new chapter. I hate to be a disappointment! Haha.


	32. a meeting

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

THIRTY-TWO

_a meeting_

"You're sure you don't want me to just nick food from the kitchens? You still look a little, you know. Woebegone."

Hermione rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror. She was in the process of completing the French braid on the left side of her head, and Draco was sitting beside her on the countertop, watching her with ill-disguised impatience. "If I faint on the way down, you'll have every right to drag me back to the dormitory and imprison me here for yet another day," she said dryly, tying off the braid neatly. Draco's eyes narrowed at her choice of colour; the thin elastic band for this braid was scarlet. The one for the braid on the right had been gold.

His worry, she told herself, was completely ungrounded. She was taking the potions that Snape sent her, every morning and night; the colour had returned to her features; the dark circles under her eyes had faded; and though she was still somewhat shaky on her feet, she supposed that anyone who had spent two weeks confined to a bed would feel the same. Aside from that, she had put back on one of the pounds she'd lost during that time in the dungeons. All indications were that her condition was improving. There was just the matter of the vivid memory nightmares that still plagued her. She supposed that she would be worried, too, if Draco were the one who couldn't sleep for three hours without waking up screaming or babbling or sobbing.

As she turned to go back to her room for her sweater, he hopped off the countertop and gracefully blocked her passage to her bedroom. "It was just an offer," he told her quietly. "A half-joking one at that. I wouldn't be able to stay long even if I did nick breakfast for us. McGonagall and Snape have summoned me."

She looked up at him, frowning. "For what?"

He shrugged; his features seemed curiously guarded. "It must be something to do with the conditions of my protection. I can't think of what else they'd both want, at the same time." He smirked suddenly. "Unless they're revoking my Head Boy badge because I've been…neglecting my duties."

She snorted. "Duties? What duties? The supervision of firsties spending their breaks indoors and organizing patrolling calendars? Like we haven't had that worked out since the beginning of fall term!" She laughed, but it faded quickly. "What do you reckon, then?" she asked, a hint of worry in her voice. "I can't see them asking anything of you. They don't do that sort of thing, you know. They've never believed they're in any position to make demands."

He let out a chuckle himself. "Snape, not make demands? Are we talking about the same person?"

"No," she told him, in all seriousness. "You know Snape, spy for the Dark Lord. I know Snape, spy for Dumbledore. His personality doesn't change, but as a member of the Order of the Phoenix he can't exactly boss people around. Kingsley wouldn't have it."

A look of confusion crossed his face. "Kingsley?"

She waved a hand. "Goodness, we'll need to get you lot introduced. Kingsley's sort of taken over since Dumbledore's gone. He's an Auror. Of course, Snape is bloody important, but if we put him in charge it would be a bit bleak all the time, wouldn't it?"

He shook his head. "Too right." With a careful eye, he looked her over. "I'll walk you down to the Great Hall before I head off to meet them. Wouldn't want to miss the possibility of keeping you trapped here for the day."

She rolled her eyes and finally pushed past him to get into her bedroom. She pulled the burgundy sweater over her white tank top—the V of the sweater showed the material beneath—and checked herself one last time in the floor-length mirror in her room. "Well," she declared, "that's as good as it gets, I think."

"Your ridiculous self-perception never ceases to amaze me," he said dryly. "Now, come on, I'm sure Potter's beside himself with anxiety. I've made him feel very bloody guilty over the past few weeks."  
She let out a sudden giggle as they walked down the stairs, through the common room, and out the portrait-hole. "I think he'd prepared himself for that, though."

He raised an eyebrow at her. The corridors were wonderfully quiet; it was half-past ten, and most of the castle had already woken for their Sunday morning breakfast. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, it's just—you know, after I started drinking the potion—I heard him say to Ron, very worriedly, 'Malfoy is going to be very fucking pissed at us.'" She smothered another giggle behind her hand.

Draco, on the other hand, was frowning in thought. "That's interesting."

She glanced sideways at him. His brow was furrowed. "How so?" she asked.

"It's just intriguing. It means that he _believes _that I care about you. I thought they were still quite unconvinced of that."

"I mean, Ginny and Harry, they've sort of known since that Hogsmeade weekend, haven't they?" Hermione pointed out with a shrug. "They both planted the idea in my head that day, you know. They were the ones who said it out loud. 'I reckon he might have a bit of a _thing_ for you, Hermione'," she mimicked. "I thought they were barking."

"Barking indeed," he muttered, wearing a reluctant smile.

They walked in a peaceful sort of silence to the Great Hall, and then, when she was about to turn toward the doors, he gently pulled her into a little alcove in the shadows. "You're sure you can handle it, now?" he asked her. "You know you're going to have to deal with the Weasel King, too."

"Thanks for reminding me," she muttered irritably. "I'm sure that if he's still acting like a prat I'll be capable of ignoring him."

He considered her, that curiously guarded expression all over his face again. "I don't think he will," he said, with something like a huff of annoyance. "Not after everything that's happened."

She smiled up at him demurely. "You aren't _jealous_, are you?"

He let out a low growl and his hands bit into her hips, pulling her against him. "You're mine," he said forcefully, as she stared up, half-awed, half-frightened, into his face. "Remember that."

She leaned up, closing the distance between them, and kissed him; his arms twined more tightly around her, gathering her up in his embrace, as the kiss deepened with passion. When he released her, she felt distinctly light-headed. "I know," she managed, and tapped a finger against her collarbone, where the necklace he'd given her at Christmas sparkled; the V of her sweater did nothing to hide it. "But you're mine, too."

They parted ways; a group of third-years crossed the Entrance Hall just as they had emerged from the shadows, so with a coolly indifferent, "See you, Granger," and "Bye, Malfoy", he made off for the stairs, while Hermione turned toward the Great Hall.

There were a few murmurs as her presence was noticed—undoubtedly, the Head Girl's absence had required a careful story to smooth over—but no faces were terribly curious as they glanced her way. She couldn't help but be glad that she wasn't terribly popular. Had she been, her disappearance for two weeks would have been all the more sensational. Her eyes wandered to the staff table, and caught Hagrid's immediately. There was a relieved look on his face as he waved in her direction. Smiling, she waved back, and then turned toward the Gryffindor table.

Ginny had spotted her, and was hailing her frantically; the boys' heads turned when they noticed Ginny's hand motions. Hermione caught a glimpse of the look on Ron's face and automatically looked away. Whatever Draco had said a few minutes before, Ron didn't look particularly thrilled. She made her way toward them, though, simply choosing to look at Harry and Ginny rather than Ron.

Ginny jumped up to hug her first, having to lean across the table to do it. Harry was already on his feet, and as soon as Ginny had released her, Harry wrapped her up in a rib-cracking hug. "You look better," he told her.

She smiled up at him. "Ease your guilty conscience. I'm fine."

Ron hadn't gotten to his feet, nor was he looking at her; he was engaged in forceful conversation with Dean and Seamus on his other side. With a shrug, and trying to stamp down the tears that were prickling in her eyes, she sat down next to Harry and pulled several plates of food toward her. They let her eat in near-silence, encouraging her appetite. She had been confined to mild foods since she had woken up, and none of them had been particularly fulfilling.

Just when she was getting to her feet, begging off for time to catch up on her work—it was hard to talk to Harry and Ginny with Ron so astutely ignoring her—Ron got to his feet, too, and caught her eye. "Fancy a walk?" he asked, casually, picking up a few pieces of toast.

She glanced at Harry and Ginny, who were giving Ron puzzled, annoyed looks. With a sigh, she nodded, and they walked, awkwardly, side-by-side, toward the Entrance Hall.

They were halfway to the lake before Ron said a word. She noticed that he wasn't eating the toast; he was leaving something of a crumb-trail behind them as he ripped it apart piece by piece. "How're you feeling?" he asked quietly. Hermione noted that he sounded rather subdued.

She shrugged. "I suppose I've been better, but I feel all right."

He nodded, and didn't comment on this. The minutes stretched by in silence as they picked their way toward the lake's edge. Irritation built in her steadily. Whatever he was planning on saying, wouldn't it be better if he just got on with it, and then left her in peace to consider the ways in which their friendship would never be repaired?

But as they reached the lake's edge, he stopped, and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hermione, I've…" She looked up at him expectantly, her arms folded across her chest. "I've been a git," he finished, miserably.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, certain that she wasn't hearing what she thought she'd heard.

He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he continued.

She went on staring, her brow furrowed.

"I can't tell if you're about to hex me or you just don't care," he muttered as he studied her.

Her mouth popped open, as though to answer, but finding that she had nothing to say, she let it snap closed again.

"It's just," he went on, a touch desperately, "I know I've been…unreasonable." She snorted; he looked somewhat heartened, perhaps because he'd gotten some small response out of her. "Obviously you aren't abandoning me and Harry for the gi—for Malfoy. You came with us, and drank the potion, and—nearly died…" A look of pain, a remembrance of horror, crossed his features.

"Yes," Hermione said frostily. "Yes, I did all that."

He gulped. "I just reckoned I've been really unfair to you."

Still looking at him coldly, she prodded him forward. "Explain."

Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair. "Look. I'm bloody sorry, all right? For everything. I know it doesn't mean much." Again, he shuffled his feet. His discomfort was still a bit endearing to her; it reminded her of her friend, before all of this jealousy and brokenness came between them. "Coming from me, and all. You've always done a lot for us…for me." He swallowed, looking rather morose. "It's really rotten of me to treat you like rubbish when all you've ever done is try to work things out between us, and it's my fault it didn't end up the way I wanted."

She sighed, and before she could blink, he had moved forward and hugged her, hard, his arms squeezing the breath out of her. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I'd get it if you never forgave me. I don't deserve it. But I'm going to be nothing but supportive from now on. You deserve that much. And just so you know…if he's ever stupid enough to let you go, I'll be first in line begging for another chance."

She sniffed, holding back tears. It was as heartfelt an apology as Ron had ever uttered in his life, and she appreciated it more than she could possibly express. "It's fine. We're fine. You're forgiven."  
If it was possible, he hugged her even harder, and she let out a laugh that was half a sob. "I won't ever ask for help on homework ever again," he promised her, drawing back a bit to look at her.  
At this, she really did laugh. "Fat chance," she scoffed, and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. "Well, I'm glad it only took me nearly killing myself for you to come round."

"I was already coming round before that!" he said defensively. "It's just, time ran out, and then the lot of them broke out of Azkaban, and I was worried, you know?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, I know. Your heart's always been in the right place, Ron Weasley. Things just get mixed up between your heart and your head."

He gave her a bemused sort of smile, and she felt, abruptly, that balance had been restored to the world.

…

Draco hadn't returned to the common room, and it was nearly ten o'clock at night.

Hermione hadn't noticed his absence, strangely enough; she had spent the day in Harry and Ron's company, doing homework, losing spectacularly at chess, drinking mug after mug of hot chocolate. Now that she had been on her own for an hour, however, she realized that his absence was growing more unusual by the minute. With a frown, she straightened up from her work and looked towards the portrait-hole. There were no footsteps approaching from the corridor. Resolving herself not to worry, she abandoned her weeks of catch-up work and headed upstairs. She could do with a shower.

She had been beneath the spray for only a few minutes, and had just rinsed the soap from her body, when the door to the bathroom creaked open. She peered through the frosted glass of the shower door just as she heard the jangle of a belt being undone. "Draco?" she called uncertainly.

She heard a snort. "Who else would it be?" He ripped his sweater over his head, quickly followed by his t-shirt, and slid the door to the shower aside.

"You've been gone a while," she commented, standing aside for a moment to let him dunk his hair under the water. The blond of his hair immediately darkened as he reached for his soap.

"It was a long conversation," he grumbled, when he had surfaced and begun to wash. "And then they conned me into eating with them."

She rolled her eyes. "How horrid."

"Yes, well…they're not a cheery lot."

Her hand lifted to touch his shoulder. "McGonagall couldn't have been so terrible. And Snape, well, you're used to him."

He hesitated, and then seemed to steel himself. "Yes, but Shacklebolt and Lupin, they're rather…difficult, aren't they?"

"You met with Kingsley and Remus?" She looked up at him, frowning, even as he shunted her aside again so that he could rinse.

"Yeah, well. I didn't ask for them in particular." He pulled a face.

For a moment, there was silence as the water ran over them both, and her shocked brown eyes stared into his unflinching silver ones. "You didn't…ask for them?" she repeated.

"Right." He reached for his soap, quickly rinsing it through his hair and dunking his head back under the faucet.

"What are you talking about?" Her confusion was building.

"I requested the meeting." As though to distract her, he began rubbing shampoo into her hair, his fingers moving in deceitfully soothing patterns on her scalp. "Didn't want to worry you, though."

"What…" She trailed off, not sure which question to pose. "What for, though?"

He tipped her head under the water, being ridiculously meticulous about getting the suds rinsed out before answering her. "I requested to join the Order."

She stared at him, her heart beating unusually fast. "That's…What? But _why_? They can't have you, you know, they only take wizards who are out of school and—why would you _want _to? What use could they have for you?"

He gave her a cross, deeply offended look. "What use could they have for me?" he repeated. "What am I, a first year?"

She blushed furiously. "It's not that," she said beseechingly, "it's just…you're a marked man, Draco. You can't go plunging head-first into battle, you'd be every Death Eater's moving target—"

"And that," he said delicately, "is exactly why I'll be useful."

She simply stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"You're right about them not taking wizards who are still in school, though. They've no use for me here. Got to keep my head down till the end of term." He said it all so casually, as though his tone would put her off the severity of the situation. "And it's not as if we're off fighting battles all the time, you know, there's other things to be done. I'm no good as a spy—leave that to Snape, his Occlumency is far better than mine—but there are other things…will you stop looking at me like that?"

For she was looking at him as though she'd never seen him before, her eyes wide. "They've…agreed?" she whispered, appalled.

He gave her another indignant look. "What, you reckon they made a mistake? I could actually be useful, you know. Despite the fact that I'm so _young_," he said scathingly, "I'm resourceful, I'm intelligent, I've been on the other side…they could do worse, and people aren't exactly hammering down their door to join up, are they? Bit of a dangerous profession. The casualty rate was rather horrid, during the first war."

"I'm aware," she snapped, her voice higher than it should have been.

He started to untangle her drenched hair with conditioner, despite the glare she was levelling at him. "Just reckoned you'd be a bit uncomfortable, shagging a Death Eater," he said quietly, the ghost of a smirk flitting across his mouth, but there was no real trace of humour in his words.

"Draco—"

"What?" he said sharply. "Am I just supposed to hide out, until this whole bloody conflict is over, and let you run around practically dying every other week?" He pulled her head back, with a bit more force than necessary, to rinse her hair free of the conditioner. By the time she emerged from beneath the faucet, she could only splutter.

"It's different—"

"It's not different," he returned forcefully. "It's not different at all, and you know it. Are you telling me that you're not signed up to the Order, when you graduate?"

"I'm not, actually," she said coolly. "Me and Harry and Ron can't tie ourselves to them. Most of the adults—barring the really sensible ones, like Snape, and Remus—don't reckon we should be allowed to carry on with our little project on our own. They'd just use our membership to keep us from doing what we need to do. We support them, of course. We can't do everything on our own, and they hold down the fort for us, you know."

"Well," he said, his tone firm, "consider me joining the force to 'hold down the fort' for you, then."

"Draco, honestly," she said, a touch desperately, "it's practically a death sentence—"

"Well, you'll have to hope that the Dark Lord doesn't make a comeback anytime soon, then," he said testily. "Then I'll just be stuck handing out leaflets. No danger there."

She took a deep breath, struggling to calm herself. "And if he does? I can just rest easy, knowing that you'll be drawing attention to yourself during battle to—to what? Divert attention from the others?"

"Yes. But that's an unlikely scenario, as you lot don't exactly have frequent skirmishes with Death Eaters, eh? It's all very…" He frowned. "Very cloak-and-dagger, isn't it?"

"Please—Draco—"

"You can't expect me to just sit by, Hermione." His tone was flat.

"On the contrary, I thought I could expect you to do just that."

The accusatory nature of her tone seemed to strike a nerve; his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. "I'm a Slytherin," he snapped, "not a coward. I didn't want any part in this bloody war, when I first accepted the Order's protection. I just wanted to stand back, let them do the work, but things have changed."

"What?" she demanded. "What's changed?"

His expression was finally unguarded as he stared down at her. "You don't get it at all," he muttered, clearly frustrated.

"Enlighten me," she invited darkly.

In answer, he pushed the door to the shower open, twisted off the tap, and reached for one of the large fluffy towels draped over the rack. He handed this to her before grabbing his own towel, scrubbing it rigorously through his hair, and then wrapping it around his waist. She followed him out of the shower and picked up her wand as he moved toward his room; with a little flick, she'd charmed her hair dry. Wrapping the towel around herself, she stepped across the threshold of his room just as he began rummaging through the drawers of his dresser.

"Draco," she said, her voice tentative, furling out toward him. "Please, just…just explain this to me…why are you electing to put yourself in danger when he returns?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He turned to face her, dragging his hand over his face.

"No," she said uncertainly. "I'm afraid it isn't."

He shook his head, and held a hand out to her, as though beckoning her nearer. "Why does it matter?" he asked quietly. "Do we have to examine the motivations of my every action? You don't really want to know why. There isn't really a reason why. You just don't want me to have done it."

She shook her head, too. "I wish you hadn't."

"How is that fair?" he demanded. "You get to go risking your neck but I can't risk mine?"

"That's not it!" she cried. "Why should you, if you don't have to?"

"That's not true. You know that they need help. That they'll need all the help they can get when the Dark Lord returns again, like he's bound to. The Mark is getting darker every day, Hermione…it can't be long. It would be…irresponsible…of me not to offer my assistance, when they're draining their resources to protect my mother and me." His tone was forcedly calm; she could hear the strain in his voice with every syllable.

"But that's not why you're doing it! You're doing it because you think it'll change _my _mind about helping Harry and Ron! You just want to keep _me _from doing anything to do with the war!"

She immediately wished she hadn't said it, but it could only be the truth; he was a Slytherin at heart, and he was bound to manipulate her at some point, whether his intentions were good or not. He had gone very still, staring at her with thinly disguised anger, and she wished even more heartily that she hadn't blurted it aloud.

"I can assure you," he said quietly, his tone like acid, "that I've been planning this far before you set off on your little _adventure_. I'd like to think I can take far better care of myself than you can, judging by the state you were in when they carried you back to the castle."

The words stung. Of course Draco couldn't know the exact events that had transpired in that cave—he didn't even know where they'd gone, what they'd gone after—but his insinuation that her magical abilities were lacking hurt her to her very core.

Not bothering to reply, Hermione turned away, strode back through the bathroom, and closed her bedroom door behind her with a soft _click _before tapping the lock with her wand. She did the same to the door that led down to their shared common room, and without considering the last bit of Arithmancy homework she hadn't finished, she pulled on pyjamas and curled up in bed.

Nevertheless, it was a long time before she managed to drift off to sleep. She couldn't help but hope, right up to the moment that she finally dropped off, that she would hear his footsteps outside her door, that he would knock and ask to be let in.

She fell asleep alone.


	33. a compromising situation

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

THIRTY-THREE

_a compromising situation_

Draco and Hermione didn't speak for the next several days.

He didn't bother seeking out a reconciliation with her; let her come to him, when she got it through her thick head that he was in the right and she was clearly in the wrong. He ignored the oblivion out of her during classes and during meals. Perhaps only occasionally did he sneak a glance her way, and what he saw only put him in a deeper rage than he was already experiencing. She was clearly on good terms with Weasley again. Surrounded by Potter and Weasley—and the Weaselette—she was clearly at home, in her element, enjoying herself. Not once did he see her glance his way. She seemed almost resolute in her determination to continue steadfastly ignoring him.

He made it easy for her; he stayed out of her way. He kept to his room whenever she was in the dormitory. He listened for her whereabouts in the too-large space, and carefully stayed out of her sight, often not journeying down to the common area until long after she'd gone to bed. If she had no desire to see him—if she was really so perturbed by his presence—he wouldn't force it upon her.

Part of him told him he was being ridiculous, that she was only worried about his safety, but at this point in his thought process, he always snorted in disgust. If she was allowed to run off with Potter and Weasley and nearly get herself killed then he had his right to a few half-assed battles. It wasn't as if he'd really see any action; it was unlikely they'd need his wandpower until much later in the game. The Dark Lord hadn't even returned yet. He knew, however, that it couldn't be long. The mark on his forearm turned darker by the day. It was becoming quite clear, now. He didn't much fancy his chances when the Dark Lord returned and realized that two-thirds of the Malfoy family were no longer loyal to him.

His mother would be safe, at least. His father would never be able to find her, was probably, even now, struggling to locate Malfoy Manor to no avail. Draco had that small comfort.

…

It was the middle of the night, and he still wasn't asleep.

He wasn't asleep because she wasn't asleep. He could tell, because there was a faint rustling noise coming from her room, and it had been mumbling around out there for a good thirty minutes. He realized with a suddenness that shook him that he hadn't looked at her in nearly three days. It was Friday, and he'd given up sneaking glances at her approximately seventy-two hours ago.

In the moments when his annoyance with the chit faded, he missed her.

The rustling had ceased. Sighing in relief, he turned over on his side, hoping that sleep would take him quickly.

It was only a moment later that bare footsteps trotted to his bedroom door, and hesitantly pushed it open. The door yielded; he hadn't locked it in days. He was practically inviting her in—to come and row with him again, or to make her apologies in an appropriate manner. With a soft breath, she ghosted forward, eventually coming to sit at the very end of his bed, carefully avoiding all contact with his feet, which were buried under the blankets in any case.

"Draco," she said quietly.

He gave a non-committal grunt, knowing it was useless to pretend that he was asleep.

"Could you at least look at me? I want to talk to you."

He gritted his teeth. Despite the strained civility in her tone, there was still the edge. The _I'm-right-and-you're-wrong_ sort of edge that she always had, always, no matter what. It was as though she were humouring him. He wouldn't have it. He would not be humoured.

"And do you always get what you want, or did you consider for a moment ever phrasing a request that didn't sound like a demand?" His words were harsh, but he knew that he could have made them more brutal.

She was silent in response; he could feel her fidgeting. When she spoke again, it was quieter, and it was a genuine plea. "I'd like to talk to you, if…if you'd allow it."

He squirmed a bit beneath his blankets, and squinted to look at the time. "Did it have to be in the middle of the night?"

He heard her breath catch in her throat. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I tried to come earlier, but I lost my nerve."

With an all-suffering sigh, he finally sat up, emerging from beneath his blankets. In the dim light echoing from her bedroom, she looked anxious; there were little lines radiating from the corners of her eyes, and her mouth was turned down in a sad little frown. With a look akin to pain, she took in his bare chest and then glanced away. "All right," he yawned. "I'm awake. What is it?"

She took a deep breath, and looked down at her hands. For the first time, he noticed that she was wearing a thin satin robe rather than pyjamas; it barely covered her to mid-thigh, offering him a marvellous look at her legs, which he couldn't ignore, now that she was staring down at her lap. They were long and ivory and twisted beneath her, and it was hard to try and look away.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He was momentarily distracted from thoughts about her legs. "What?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, her gaze lifting again to meet his. "I was unreasonable. I shouldn't expect…well. I shouldn't have reacted so badly to you joining the Order. It's a noble thing to do, really." Her lip trembled a bit, and she looked down again with another deep breath.

For a long moment, he stared at her in silence—in confusion. As much as he'd wanted this apology, he'd never expected it. Seemingly unable to bear the quiet any longer, she peeked up at him through her hair. "But…" he prompted her.

A confused look flashed across her features. "But what?"

"I'm just expecting an addendum to this…apology. You're not just going to tell me that I'm right and you were wrong and be done with it."

She shook her head slowly. "No. That's exactly what I'm doing. You were right, I was wrong." She winced. "I'm really sorry, Draco. I…" She hesitated. "I miss you," she finished, her voice softer. "I don't want us to ignore one another forever. I shouldn't have lost my temper, I shouldn't have expected you to sit around while I go running off to Merlin knows where, it's such a terrible double standard. I just…" Her lip trembled a bit again, but she controlled herself swiftly. "I realized how you felt, when I took off like that, and I hated it. But there's a war on, isn't there? We've got to do things we don't like."

He continued to stare at her, blankly. "What's gotten into you?"

The confusion crossed her features again, this time with a bit of irritation. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…this is so unusual." He squinted at her. "You're always right."

"No," she muttered, a bit grumpily. "Harry and Ron have set me quite straight on that."

He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Oh, Merlin. You talked to _them _about this?"

"I was seeking consolation," she said miserably. "But of course, they told me straight off that I was being ridiculous, and that I really had no other choice but to apologize. It took rather a lot of time for me to come to that conclusion, though, and…" She shrugged, still clearly unhappy. For a moment, she looked at him beseechingly, but then stared back down at her lap. "But I…I really do miss you. This week has been terrible." She took a deep breath. "Perhaps not the worst week ever, you know, at least Ron's acting normally again, but…it's not the same without you anymore. It's horrible, actually. You didn't even look at me all week."

"I did so!" he exclaimed, outraged. "It was you who wasn't looking at me!" She gave him an aggrieved look. "Well," he amended, "I realized that you were fine, you know, chumming it up over there with Potter and Weasley, so I made myself stop looking—what was the point, I—"

"I just…" She was blushing furiously. "I didn't want you to think I was pathetic! If I was just moping around all the time—"

He snorted. "But you were, weren't you? Where I couldn't see you?"

She jumped to her feet, glowering. "Honestly, do you have to make this so difficult?"

Draco got to his feet too, half-grinning now. "Yes. I really do. This is the most compromising situation you've ever been in, and I'm enjoying it. And this," he added, reaching out to touch the satiny material of her robe. He had realized, for the first time, that it was a rich, dark green. "I've never seen you wear this before."

At this, she blushed even more deeply. "Your mother insisted I keep all the clothes she bought for me," she mumbled. "And I thought that…it couldn't…you know, hurt things."

"You're quite right," he agreed. "You're forgiven."

With a rough tug, he pulled her closer to him; his fingertips barely grazed her body as his hands trailed over the thin material of the robe toward her waist. Lightly, he loosened the knot that closed the front of the robe. He heard her breath catch.

"Really?" she interrupted. Her voice shook slightly. "It was that easy?"

His hands slipped beneath the material, letting the robe fall open as he leaned into her. "Yes," he breathed in her ear, and brushed his lips against her sensitive skin. He felt her muscles tense, drawing together in reaction to his proximity. She nearly hummed with energy, coursing with the anticipation filling her; he could feel it like an electric current under his hands. Without further hesitation, he slipped the robe from her shoulders and pulled her onto the bed with him, falling back against the pillows as she straddled his lap.

He took a moment to enjoy the sight, his hands holding her near her ribs, keeping her still in the shaft of moonlight that fell over her. The thin nightie barely covered her; the straps were thin, the entire thing moulded so closely to her shape that almost nothing was left to the imagination. He could trace the pattern of her ribs with his eyes; he could even see the slight indentation that was her belly button. It was very low-cut, and short enough to reveal the matching knickers beneath—barely.

Her hair fell forward over her shoulder, the heavy honey-brown curls just barely brushing his chest as she leaned a little nearer to him. He inhaled the scent of her perfume. "It really was very noble of you," she whispered, as her hands flitted up to steady herself on his shoulders.

"Yes, well, I've had my fill of noble things, so I hope you've prepared yourself." He saw the hint of a smirk on her lips at his scathing tone before he had knotted his hand in her hair and was dragging her in to kiss her.

He had not forgotten the feeling of her wrapped around him, but his memories hadn't done it justice. She was delicious—sweet, coy, shy, still humming with the nervous anticipation beneath his fingertips, which were sliding slowly down her back as his lips assaulted hers. She gave a soft little gasp against his mouth as his hands found the hem of the satin, lifting it up to expose her stomach, lifting it higher to tug it over her head.

"You look good in green," he murmured, getting an eyeful of the green bra—edged in silver lace; a nice touch—before leaning in to press his lips between her breasts. She made a noise like a purr as his hands slid up her back, caught the clasp of her bra, and gently tugged it off.

He lost himself in her, and didn't worry about finding himself again.

…

The weak light of dawn shone through the curtains. They hadn't slept, nor did Hermione show any indication of wanting to. For the moment, she was docile, pressed lightly against his chest, her body curving against his, their legs a tangle beneath the blankets, his fingertips lazily tracing her shoulder, her arm, her ribs; he had no doubt, however, that she would shake herself from her doze soon. A smirk curved his lips momentarily. She had determinedly kept him awake all night, once recovered from her nerves. He had a feeling she was trying to make it up to him even more thoroughly.

"What're you smirking about?" her voice murmured from his chest, and he felt her head tilt back to look up at him.

"Just replaying the last several hours in my head," he returned, turning his smirk toward her, and a light pink suffused her cheeks, but she smiled.

"It was good," she agreed, her fingers trailing down his chest. The pink was fading; she seemed determined to overcome any embarrassment. She hesitated, however, on the verge of speaking.

"What?" he prompted.

She took a soft breath and stared into his eyes. "We should have breakfast with the Slytherins this morning," she murmured.

His jaw tightened. He hadn't forgotten the plan, and time was ticking on, after all; Pansy was bound to cause trouble if he went much longer without dragging their relationship out into the public.

"Does it have to be _this _morning?" he grumbled. "I'm exhausted. We're both going to look like we haven't slept in days."

A mischievous smile was playing around her lips. "We'll be quite convincing then, won't we?"

Despite his misgivings about the idea of proclaiming any sort of public affiliation with her, he grinned. There was nothing quite like his lioness willingly going into the world bearing exhaustion as proof of their relationship.

"Yes, especially the, ah, marks on your neck," he agreed.

She was up in a flash, shooting toward the bathroom to examine herself in the mirror. He heard her give a low moan, and decided it was best to follow her and convince her to leave at least one or two of them before she went for her wand.

"I think they look lovely," he told her as she grumblingly removed all but one of the marks with many complicated twiddles from her wand.

"You can't appear to have been too eager, remember?" she shot back at him. "You're only shagging me to hurt me, in their minds, anyway, and it wouldn't do for them to think you liked it too much."

A grin crossed his face again. It was absurd, what being back on speaking terms with her did for his mood. "Yes," he said dryly, as she slapped down her wand and made for the shower. Doggedly, he followed her, determined to put her back in a good mood before they went downstairs. "They would be quite annoyed about that."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know this is a bit shorter than usual, but I didn't want it to be over-long. I probably won't post again until after Thanksgiving, but in the meantime, hope you all have a lovely Turkey Day. :)


	34. fine and convoluted line

A Concerted Effort to Disagree

THIRTY-FOUR

_fine and convoluted line_

"They're not going to like you much after this," Draco commented as they picked their way down one of the many staircases to the Great Hall.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "They don't like me much to begin with. It's not as if it'll make much difference."

He reached out to tangle his fingers in hers. "I meant, your bloody Gryffindors. The Slytherins are going to act all chipper as part of their little game." He cringed. "But your House is going to have no idea what's going on, they're just going to think you've gone off the deep end. That you've betrayed them. This isn't going to be easy."

She shrugged, and moved a little closer to his side. He put his arm around her shoulders, turning just slightly to inhale the scent of her hair. It fell, loose and curly, around her shoulders, a little bit wet still at the ends. She would look—at least, they had speculated as much—as though she had just taken a shower with him, since his own platinum locks were still damp at the tips. Well, if she looked that way, it was because it was the truth. The shadow of a smirk turned his lips as he recalled the particular way she said his name while he had her up against the cold tile wall.

"The only ones who really matter are Harry and Ron and Ginny, and they've all come round," she answered him quietly. "I'm hoping that their approval will be enough to shield me from the worst of the torment, but if it isn't, I'm sure the worst they'll do is ignore me. It's what they've done to Harry every time he earns their disapproval. I'm less well-known; I'm sure my…inclinations…will come as less of a blow."

They were nearly to the Great Hall, and, by increasing the pressure around her shoulders, he forced her to come to a stop. He turned her to face him, his hands clasped loosely around her upper arms.

"I can still call it off," he told her, looking down into her golden-brown eyes.

She shook her head. "You don't have enough sway anymore. You know that. Pansy will get the others to eat you alive. She'll realize you're just protecting me, and that will make it so much worse." Her eyes danced. "Besides, we'd have to go public sometime. We might as well do it in the hopes of keeping us both safe."

He lifted a hand to brush a thumb lightly over her lips. "Gryffindor through and through," he said finally, unable to say what he really meant, but she seemed to understand. She leaned up to kiss his cheek, her lips brushing tenderly across his skin, and then folded her hand into his own.

"Ready?" she murmured. When he nodded, she pulled him gently toward the Great Hall.

For a moment, they stood in the entrance, their eyes seeking out Pansy's black hair and Blaise's dark skin, dawdling just long enough for people to notice their joined hands, the intimate way Draco leaned down to whisper in her ear. The talk in the Hall grew just slightly louder; out of the corner of his eye, Draco noticed the hard set of Snape's jaw as he watched them, and the way McGonagall's eyebrows were about to disappear into her hairline. With a tug, he pulled Hermione forward with him, toward Pansy and Blaise, as the talk in the Hall swelled.

To his credit, Blaise looked suitably surprised, though flashed a smirk at Draco when Hermione was busying herself with the marmalade. "Morning, Granger," he drawled.

She nodded back to him, only a faint smile at the corner of her mouth. "Morning."

"Lovely to have you here again," Pansy directed at her. "I must say, we all knew it was just…a matter of time."

Hermione's expression of polite incredulity was well-done, Draco thought. "A matter of time?" she questioned.

"Oh, you know." Pansy waved a hand between Hermione and Draco. "Ever since Halloween, it's been like a ticking time bomb. He's obviously quite…smitten with you." She smirked at Draco.

"I don't think _smitten _is quite within my range," Draco replied, cocking an eyebrow at the pair of them. Blaise laughed, but Draco saw Pansy covertly examining the barely-visible mark he'd left on Hermione's throat during the night. Hermione, noticing the scrutiny, blushed and immediately adjusted her blouse, better arranging the collar to hide the bruise. She was a good actress, given the chance, Draco thought with amusement as Hermione allowed her fingertips to brush the sore skin, and her teeth bit into her lower lip to stop a smile. She was doing well to act the part of the besotted, lovesick fool—with good subtlety, even.

"Oh, dear…your Gryffindors aren't happy with you, Granger," Pansy crowed, leaning to the side to see past Hermione.

"I'm sure they aren't," Hermione answered dismissively. "It's my choice, not theirs. Marmalade?"

Pansy accepted, her eyes still on the Gryffindor table. "Is the one with red hair one of your friends?" she asked, and to his complete horror, Draco saw a faint light of interest dawning in Pansy's dark green eyes.

Before Hermione could answer, Blaise cut in dismissively. "It's Weasley. Unless you're talking about the girl, in which case, it's Weaselette. Not interested, are you, Pans?"

Both Draco and Blaise roared in laughter at this comment, but the former could tell that, beneath her surface sneer, Pansy was shocked by this information. Perhaps she hadn't been keeping as close an eye on the Gryffindor trio as he had all these years; perhaps she hadn't recognized him straight off as the Boy Wonder's best friend.

"As if," she snorted disdainfully, but catching the dangerous look in Hermione's eye, she hastened to add, "of course, I'm sure he's lovely and all, it's just…I'm not partial to red hair."

It was a fine and convoluted line to walk, Draco thought. They had to act as if they accepted Hermione on most levels; they had to act as if Draco would tear the mickey out of them if they upset her. And all the while, they were inwardly having a good laugh, believing that Draco would laugh along with them when they got the chance to talk about it behind her back. He hid the flicker of annoyance in his eyes by ducking his head and pulling a plate of fried eggs toward him.

It was going to be a long few months.

…

She had avoided her House all weekend, but there was nothing for it when Monday morning rolled around. They had a rough time of finding a fourth member for their group during Herbology that day. None of the Gryffindors appeared to want to talk to Hermione at all, and the Hufflepuffs were just as badly tempered. Eventually, however, Neville sidled over to the three of them.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

"Sure, Neville," Harry replied, gathering around the cropping of Chinese Chomping Cabbages they needed to tend to. "We're in sore need of a fourth, as everyone seems to have suddenly developed an aversion to Hermione."

Neville glanced at her in discomfort. "He isn't blackmailing you, is he?" he asked her in a worried voice.

She let out a laugh that earned her a glare from everyone nearby. "No, Neville," she said gently. "He's just sort of grown on me. I promise, I'm fine. Mentally stable and all that." She pulled on her dragon hide gloves. "You'll see."

Neville didn't look quite convinced, but knelt down beside her nonetheless. "You know, he hasn't really tormented me all term," he muttered thoughtfully. "I just reckoned he'd gotten bored of it, or something, but…"

"He's different," Hermione agreed, gently disentangling weeds from around the bases of her cabbage. It stirred and attempted a playful bite at her fingers, which she snatched quickly out of reach. "I wouldn't be with him if he wasn't. There's only so much braid-pulling a girl can take before it isn't fun anymore, you know."

Ron cast her a slightly bemused look, as though the analogy had gone over his head. "What was Parkinson staring at Saturday morning, anyway?" he asked, disentangling the weeds from his own cabbage none too gently; it snapped angrily at him. "The way she was looking at us…"

Hermione stifled a giggle. Ron frowned at her.

"What? What's so funny?"

"It's…oh, I shouldn't laugh," she said, before another burst of giggles seized her. "I think she might be interested in you, Ron."

He stared at her as though he hadn't heard her.

"She didn't say so, of course," Hermione added, now gingerly adding manure around the cabbage. It snuggled itself closer to the earth in response. "But she was leaning around me, looking at our table and how everyone was looking just furious about me and Draco, and she asked who the one with the red hair was with this look, you know, like she liked what she saw."

The strained, dumbfounded silence was broken by Harry's chuckle of laughter. He tried to subdue it beneath the guise of a cough. Ron turned to glare at him.

"It _isn't _funny."

Harry coughed again. "No, not at all," he chuckled. "Next thing you know you're all going to be going out with Slytherins."

"I hope you're including yourself in this," Ron shot back at him.

Harry shrugged. "Nah, I've got Ginny. I don't reckon even the likes of Pansy Parkinson could tear me away." Failing to hide his grin, he turned back to his cabbage, ignoring a fuming Ron.

Hermione, fighting down a smile, turned back to her own Chinese Chomping Cabbage. Neville patted her on the shoulder. "If it makes you happy," he said, giving her a smile, "I reckon you know him better than we do, now."

She smiled back at him. "Thanks, Neville."

Draco was waiting for her at the castle steps when the period had ended to walk with her to Arithmancy. He exchanged pleasant, if overly polite, greetings with Harry and Ron—all of them acknowledging one another with surnames only—and then turned to Hermione. "The torture killing you yet?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

She shrugged, slipping her hand into his. "They're just ignoring me. It isn't so bad. And Neville's even come round. Imagine that."

"Longbottom?" He raised his eyebrows. "I thought he'd be the last to do so, since I've tormented him directly…"

"Well, Hermione reckons you've changed," Neville's voice emerged from the throng, and he stepped out of the students who were still filing up the castle steps, his hands in his pockets. "And I trust her judgment, as she's rarely led us astray before."

A flicker of surprise crossed Draco's features before he nodded. "Thanks, Longbottom. I'm sure she appreciates that."

Neville nodded back and went on up the steps. "I'll tell you what, he can have his shot at Aunt Bella," Draco muttered, watching him go. "She's a nutter, big as they come, and I'm sure it would give him some satisfaction."

Hermione shot him a startled look.

"What, you thought I didn't know?" He cringed as they mounted the steps and moved off toward Arithmancy. "She makes everyone but Mum uncomfortable, anyway, you know, and that's just because they're sisters—blood is blood. It's always…creeped me out, a little, the way she did the things she did. She told me I was weak because I didn't have the stomach for the Unforgiveables…but I reckon you have to be a little less human, you know, to really get the hang of them."

Hermione slid her arm through his and rested her cheek against his shoulder despite the shocked and revolted looks this drew from the students around them, except those who were too young to appreciate the taboo.

"What?" he asked her, amused.

She glanced up at him with a smile. "It's just good to know that you're really all human."

He snickered and rumpled her hair in retribution.

She could get used to this, she thought, as a passing Gryffindor muttered a derisive comment under his breath, and Draco pulled her a bit closer, seemingly content to walk at her side.

…

"It could have been worse, don't you think?" Hermione asked quietly as she flicked yet another piece of crumpled-up parchment into the fire. The flames licked it up with greed. The little bits had started to accumulate in her hair, on her clothes, and in her bag after lunch, as the students united in their campaign to show her just how much they disapproved of her choices.

"I suppose they could have drawn and quartered us by now," Draco agreed, yawning and stretching before abandoning his homework at his desk and coming to sit beside her. Forgetting the bits of parchment, she slipped under his arm, resting her cheek against his shoulder and letting the combined warmth of the fire and his body wash over her.

"I'm still curious, you know," she said quietly, glancing up at him.

"About what?" he answered lazily, having taken up the task of throwing the rumpled-up pieces of paper into the flames.

"About why you joined the Order." He stiffened immediately, and made as though to pull away from her. "Relax," she soothed, tugging on his arm to pull him back to her. "I'm not trying to start a fight. I'm just curious. Is it really just because you feel indebted to them for protecting you and your mother? That's all?"

"You forgot the bit where I mentioned you might be uncomfortable shagging a Death Eater," he returned irritably, but he had relaxed some, at least; he tugged her to her feet and then sat down in his armchair, pulling her down to get comfortable on his lap.

"Yes, there's that, but..." She hesitated. She didn't want him angry at her again, but the longing to know his motivations was gnawing at her. "It was just the way you reacted. 'Isn't it obvious?'" she quoted, and tucked her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder, watching the fire. "It had to have meant something."

She felt him swallow—a gulp, almost. "It did," he said quietly, and then fell silent once more, his fingers toying with her hair; if she wasn't absolutely mistaken, his pulse had increased; she could feel it just beneath her cheek.

"And?" she prompted, her voice soft. She glanced up at him to find him already looking down at her with wariness.

His fingers knotted in her hair, and he gently pulled her head back to give him access to her mouth; he kissed her deeply, tenderly, the way he had kissed her after coming back from patrolling with Pansy, the way he had kissed her the night before she had set off for the cave with Harry and Ron. It was passionate, heady, eliciting a sudden spike in her pulse, a rushing in her ears that could only be her rising blood pressure.

When he pulled back from her, he traced the outline of her lips, swollen from his ministrations, his eyes on her. "You must have some idea," he murmured, dipping his head to press his lips to her neck—the sensitive spot, just below her jaw, the one that made her feel faint when his tongue touched it.

Something stirred in the back of her mind, a thought, a hope, that was immediately dashed. "I despise guessing games," she grumbled, failing to sound unhappy when her breath hitched in the midst of her sentence; his teeth were pressing lightly at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

He lifted his head to look at her again, his eyes silver, uncertain, and vulnerable. "I'm not sure I can tell you," he said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She tried to grin. "Is it that horrible?"

"Yes," he answered seriously. "I mean, it could be."

She shifted so that she could better face him; straddling his lap, she sat back on his legs, her own folded to either side of her. Lifting a hand, she swept his platinum hair off his forehead. Her fingers explored the outline of his jaw, her eyes following the path her fingertips made. He closed his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. She realized, with a jolt, how utterly receptive he'd been to her affections today, how affectionate he'd been in return; she'd once thought this sort of thing would be impossible, but now…

"I promise I won't laugh," she whispered, leaning in a bit closer to him. "Or tell anyone," she added as an afterthought.

His eyes had opened and were looking into hers with amusement. "It wouldn't matter. They wouldn't believe you."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh? If they can believe that you're willing to _date _me, I'm sure they can believe a great many things—"

"I love you."

She was certain that she hadn't heard correctly. He'd spoken so quietly, after all, that she had barely heard anything above the reeling tangle of her own words, interrupted by his soft pronouncement. He looked at her quite steadily, all traces of amusement gone, a dark seriousness in his silver eyes.

"I mean—" He shook his head, as though annoyed with himself. "I _meant _to say it like this."

He leaned in, and his words whispered across her lips. "I love you," he said, and then kissed her.

It deepened, strengthened, grew; her pulse was singing in her ears as she rose up to her knees, and his hands wrapped tenderly around her hips, and her fingers ran through his hair, tipping his face up to hers. It was a moment before she pulled back, realizing she was nearly gasping for air.

"You…" she whispered, staring down into his eyes.

He firmly but gently pushed her back, putting her feet on the floor, and followed her up, wrapping an arm around her waist. His hand lifted to cup her cheek. "I love you," he murmured, confirming, his eyes searching hers.

A smile was blooming across her swollen lips; she could feel it tugging at the muscles in her face, as though she'd never smiled quite so properly before. "You love me?" she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I wasn't sure, at first," he said quietly. "It was so—unfamiliar…" He hesitated. "I just felt protective. I liked making you laugh. I liked making you happy…I didn't like spending time away from you. Eventually—obviously—I wanted to shag you. It was…consuming me. And just having you like that wasn't enough. I suppose that's what love is, isn't it? Being so…obsessed…with the desire for someone's flesh, and even having had them like that, you want more. You need more." He paused again, looking down at her. "Well?" he murmured. "Curiosity satisfied?"

The words fell from her mouth, not an answer, but simple truth.

"I love you, Draco."

His breath hitched in shock, but she didn't give him time to freeze with it; she pulled him down to the couch with her, and his body half-draped over hers, as she pulled his lips to hers for a kiss.

After a moment, though, he pulled back. "You…" he began, and for once, he sounded quite wrong-footed.

"I love you," she repeated, her voice shaking with her sincerity. "I have since…didn't you know? You were the reason I couldn't just accept Ron, why Pansy upset me so much that night—I thought you would have seen it, in my mind—"

"I did," he interrupted, looking quite gobsmacked, "I just—I didn't quite believe it. I thought you liked me a lot, sure, but—"

"No," she cut across him. "I was obsessed. I was distraught. It was like all I could think of was you, and how you would never care for me like that, or really see me as me, rather than a Gryffindor, a Mudblood—"

He silenced her with his lips, pressing urgently to hers as one hand tangled in her hair, the other stroking along the curve of her hip. "I see you as you," he whispered, when he had moved to her neck, and his lips moving against her sensitive skin made her squirm with desire. His fingertips loosened the buttons of her blouse, exposing her skin an inch at a time. "Just Hermione. Brave, stubborn, smart, bit of a temper—accepting, unfailingly kind, even when I didn't deserve it…when I still don't…"

She sat up enough to allow him to pull her shirt over her head, and then pulled him back to her, gazing up into his face as she undid the buttons of his shirt in turn. "You always made up for it," she said quietly. "Everyone deserves kindness, Draco."

He didn't argue with her as she tossed his shirt to the side; he allowed her to remove the rest of his clothing, and reached for hers with an urgency that was gentle and yet desperate all at once. There was quiet as his body overlapped hers, as his hand held her hip and the other lost itself in her mane of chestnut-brown hair. And then, as the tension built, he murmured the words into her flesh, over and over again; she said them back, first in a whisper, then in a murmur, and then in a breathless moan as tears pricked her eyes and she arched into him, her hands grasping at the couch as her body pressed up against his, and with a last, broken whisper of her name, he collapsed against her, spent.

For a moment, they lay in silence, breathing becoming less laboured. He rolled from on top of her, giving her room to breathe, and pulled her instead to rest her head against his chest, keeping her body pressed to his side. She fought the sudden upsurge of emotion at this simple gesture, but couldn't suppress the sniff that gave her away.

He turned onto his side to face her, getting a better view. "What's wrong?" he asked, running his thumb beneath her eyes to wipe away the tears.

She shook her head. "Nothing." When he looked unconvinced, she sighed. "I know it doesn't make sense, but I'm happy. I just…" Another wave of emotion hit her, and she buried her face against his chest. "I wasn't sure you'd ever feel the same, let alone tell me," she whispered, hoping he could still hear her.

He gave a bemused chuckle. "I'll never understand women. You laugh when you're furious and cry when you're happy. It makes no sense."

She sniffed. "Don't bother trying to understand it. It's no use. I don't get it, either."

His arms tightened around her as she felt a yawn stretch through him. "That was hardly the most acrobatic thing we've ever done," he said dryly, "but I'm exhausted."

She yawned too, and glanced up from his chest. "Me too."

With a groan of reluctance, he got to his feet, and then leaned down to pick her up; she squealed as he lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the stairs. "Relax," he said, with a grin that was more genuine than many she had seen on his features. "I won't drop you."

He did throw her, however, once they'd reached his bed, and she laughed as she bounced on the sheets. He threw himself down after her, pulled her against his chest, and yanked the blankets up over them with another yawn before kissing her on the cheek. His arm draped over her waist, securing her against him. "Good night, Hermione," he murmured.

She stretched against him with a smile. "Good night, Draco," she whispered back, feeling his body relax into sleep, and, closing her eyes, she followed him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, there you have it, the big moment! This is going to be my last update until finals are finished next week, so savor it, people. I also reckon this story doesn't have much to go, another ten chapters, perhaps. And it's about time, as I've been working on it for over a year. Review for me, lovelies. :D And, on another note, thank you so much to all the unregistered people who've left me such lovely reviews! I'm sorry I can't reply to you all personally, but know that your words really encourage me to keep writing!

However, I would like to leave this one reply to the reviewers who have disagreed with/agreed with/discussed Narcissa's behavior back in one of the earlier chapters: Hermione has proven that she develops a great weakness in her Gryffindor bravado whenever she falls in love (case in point: the mess she was in over Ron during their sixth year). She's still a teenager, she's still confused, and it's entirely plausible (in my mind, anyway) that she wouldn't react too strongly to Narcissa, hoping not to offend the woman who one day could be her mother-in-law. And as for Narcissa's behavior, and her question to Hermione, I think Draco has made it unfortunately obvious-despite his hope at subtlety-in his letters to his mother that he has developed some sort of soft spot for Hermione, and Narcissa simply assumes that Hermione returns the sentiment. Through their little arguments at dinner, I hoped to convey that, though their love is unconventional, it's still there-in its own unusual way. They arouse a passion in each other that, especially on Draco's end, is not expressed otherwise.


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